


Away Mission

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Beads, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing Kink, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, PWP, Submission, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets wherein Pavel follows his boyfriend’s orders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Khan

Pavel has a sharp intake of breath when the threads around his waist are plucked, the intense pressure around his middle that’s been holding him in all day finally slackening. His arms instinctively clutch to the corset’s front; it’s expensive and valuable to him beyond credits. It keeps his boyfriend’s eyes on him. He doesn’t mind moving about Starfleet Headquarters bound and made-up beneath his clothes, just for those little five-minute windows where he detours past the office where _John Harrison_ works. He doesn’t care who else sees the curves the corset gives him, doesn’t care about any of their comments. All that matters is Khan’s lingering gaze, and the final release of Khan taking it off, like only he can. 

The crisscrossed back of the corset, like so many of Pavel’s devices, is fixed with a tiny, DNA-coded locking mechanism: epitomizing Khan’s control. Only he can remove it. When the lacing’s finally loose enough to free Pavel’s body from the corset, it’s the _permission_ as much as the freedom itself that makes Pavel exhale. 

Pavel folds the corset and walks to the drawers across from the bed, carefully putting it back in place. Nearly naked, Pavel’s shivering, like he always is around Khan, even when there’s nothing to anticipate. He already pleased his boyfriend. There isn’t time to shower, or rather, he doesn’t want to make time; he wants to keep the smell and bruises of his lover’s touch on his skin. He tells himself he’ll wear cologne and mask it to at least attempt professionalism, but he knows he won’t. 

When he turns back around, Khan’s sitting casually on the bed, looking regal as always, even so relaxed. Pavel licks his lips and has to remind himself that there isn’t time for more. They had their goodbyes. A beautiful date and a fancy meal out and everything, then a rigorous night of being _claimed_ hard enough to last for the next month they’ll be apart for.

Khan’s ever-changing eyes flicker down to Pavel’s crotch, and he stiffens. He was thinking of leaving his panties on. Hardly professional Starfleet gear, but... he’ll wear everything else right. They’ll never know. He hooks his thumbs into the sides, ready to pull them down, and he wonders if he could maybe just wear jock straps or something like that, something skimpy and open that leaves him feeling deliciously _open_ and remembering the way Khan likes him. Hikaru is always working out on the rec deck, and even the captain spends time there; maybe they wear straps. Pavel has Starfleet-issue boxers, of course, but...

“Leave them on.” Khan’s deep, purring voice makes Pavel’s cock twitch in its confines. He’s been too thoroughly used this morning to get fully hard again—he isn’t an augment. But Khan’s voice is pure sensuality, and it always has some effect. Pavel lowers his hands and breathes a sigh of relief. The rest of the clothes in his suitcase are standard issue, and he needed this one thing. 

He still has to change into his uniform. It’s laid out over the back of his chair, and he takes the crisp black pants with a mingled sense of excitement and regret. He covets his prized position aboard the flagship, of course; this is what he left home for, what he studied for, what he wanted so badly. But... he formed those dreams before he knew Khan. And he knows that Khan can’t come with him. _John Harrison_ has other duties, whether or not Pavel is allowed to know of them. The pants feel a size too large when they’re on him, though they’ve been synthesized just for his measurements. When he’s on the ground like this, Khan often has him wear a size too small, and Pavel already misses the way his other pants fit so snuggly, cupped his ass just right...

He lingers slipping his undershirt on, even though he doesn’t have the time; the transport’s leaving in an hour. He doesn’t dare dance into his clothes like he often does; there isn’t time to get Khan excited again. But he still can’t help making some show of it. When the gold tunic’s on, Pavel turns with bated breath, and he keeps his feet firmly planted on the ground. He wants to run to Khan’s lap and share another kiss, something fierce and passionate and full of promise, but he doesn’t trust himself to leave it there. He opens his mouth to say goodbye, but he doesn’t have the words. 

He turns to the door of the bedroom and scoops up his baggage, slipping the long strap over his shoulder. He walks to the door of the apartment, nearly trembling, and only manages to keep moving because he hears Khan’s footsteps behind him. At the door, he stops and turns. 

He mumbles, “I vill miss you dearly,” and he lunges at Khan’s middle, wrapping his taller, stronger boyfriend in the clingy sort of hug that would leave it very difficult for anyone else to pry him off. He buries his face in Khan’s neck and inhales, can still smell the sex they had and Khan raw underneath that. He flattens their entire bodies together and doesn’t want to let go. 

Composed as ever, Khan brushes the curls away from Pavel’s forehead and presses in a kiss, murmuring, “It’ll be okay.” Though Pavel doesn’t let go and can’t see Khan’s expression, he can _hear_ the smirk that follows. “...Besides, we have our little game to play, if you’re still up to it.”

Pavel nods his head against Khan’s shoulder. “Yes, yes.” It won’t be the same, but he’s still looking forward to it; it’ll still be their dynamic, even if they can’t really _be_ together.

Khan’s arms, wrapped around his back, slip lower, and he feels something small drop into the back pocket of his pants: a communicator. Khan pets the back of Pavel’s head and asks, “You remember your safe word, don’t you?”

Pavel mumbles, “Yes,” even though he knows he’ll never use it. He insists, “I vill obey your orders implicitly, any time, any place.”

Khan purrs, “Good boy,” and pecks his forehead again. Pavel finally turns his face up; he wants a real kiss. Khan doesn’t give it, and Pavel, too desperate to spare the time for begging, lifts up to bestow it himself. He whines when Khan’s perfect bow lips don’t part for his tongue, leaving the kiss chaste. When Pavel pulls back, he knows it’s time to go. 

But Khan muses, “I don’t think you’ll be early for that transport after all.” Pavel doesn’t have time to ask why; Khan’s long fingers fist in Pavel’s curls, and then he’s being shoved down; his knees buckle and he hits the floor. His arms are still wrapped around Khan’s body, but Khan’s grip on his hair holds him down, face parallel with Khan’s crotch. Somewhere in the back of his head, Pavel knows this isn’t a good idea, but the rest of him doesn’t care.

With the skill of a practiced professional, Pavel has Khan’s pants open in no time. He doesn’t bother pushing them down, doesn’t bother touching himself or his own clothes, even though he’d very much love to hold his tunic open and have Khan come all over his chest. Instead, he cups Khan’s heavy balls in one hand, holds the thick shaft out with the other, opens his mouth right up and pops onto the mushroom head. Usually, he likes to lavish his lover’s perfect cock with kisses and licks before he impales himself, but he knows he can’t today. He relaxes his throat and takes as much as he can, as fast as he can, savouring everything he can: one last treat for the road. Khan sighs appreciatively above him, and Pavel whimpers his delight, sliding further on. Even with all of Pavel’s constant practice, Khan is simply far too big to take all at once. He has to concentrate and push himself bit by bit, letting the impressive girth slide along his tongue and back down his throat. Khan isn’t fully hard yet, but Pavel changes that quickly. He worms his way right to the base and sucks as hard as he can, burying himself in the dark curls there and drinking in the taste, the smell, the feeling. The sounds of Khan’s breathing are hot as hell even without words. Khan’s hands stroke the back of Pavel’s head, and Pavel’s moaning and aching, and it’s only because of how thoroughly he’s already been used that he isn’t rock hard again and rutting into the floor. 

This isn’t about him. It’s just about _Khan._ Pavel moves half off and slams back down, nearly choking himself, but he doesn’t care. He masters his gag reflex and does it again, setting in to bob up and down and hollow out his cheeks, sucking and tonguing the underside and brushing his teeth with Khan’s magnificent cock. He’s going to miss this so desperately. He tries to savour it, tries to memorize every little thing. But when he stalls, Khan’s grip in his curls tightens, and he’s shoved relentlessly forward. Khan’s hips slam into him, and a second later, his face is being furiously fucked, and it’s all Pavel can do not to really choke and pass out. He knows it’s for the best; Khan can do it faster, better, more efficiently; Pavel can’t be late, even though, if he was, he’d have to stay here, with Khan, for another month...

He doesn’t get that luxury. Khan fucks his own way to completion, and then he’s holding Pavel’s head in, and Pavel’s throat’s being drenched in a hot wave of cum. He fights the urge to swallow—wants to keep it in his mouth for the journey—but there’s too much and it ends up leaking around his lips and trickling down his chin—he tries to wipe it off and has to swallow two of the augmented loads. When Khan twitches to an end, Pavel whimpers and doesn’t want to let go. 

Khan pushes him off anyway, and Pavel licks his fingers and lips clean. He’s tugged back up by his hair before he’s done. Even though his mouth is ruined, Khan kisses him there, light and sweet. The bag over Pavel’s shoulder feels heavier than before, and he just wants to slink down to his boyfriend’s feet, where he belongs.

But the Enterprise is waiting. Khan’s proud of him, he knows. Khan turns him around, because Pavel’s too dizzy to do it himself, and Khan keys the door open. Then he slaps Pavel’s ass, and Pavel lurches forward. He takes one last, longing look, then breaks into a run.


	2. Sulu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing for me when I don't have time to write properly or proof! ♥

Pavel’s in the changing room on the rec deck—the one near the exercise gym, not the pool—when his communicator buzzes in the back pocket of his pants. He’s halfway out of his shirt, and he nearly trips in an effort to grab the communicator instead of finishing. It takes a second to get the wherewithal to finish undressing first, and then he’s whipping out of his top and snapping the communicator open. He has barely enough sense to check the open doorway—Hikaru left a moment ago and is waiting for him. It’s their first shift off together since returning to the Enterprise, which is lucky, as it’s hardly been a week. Pavel always enjoys his workouts with Hikaru.

But he enjoys Khan more, and he asks, “John?” Because he’s agreed to all Khan’s secrets beyond the point of even asking why. There’s a pause on the other side that has Pavel’s blood rushing too fast. He leans his forehead against the cooler lockers, turned in so that if Hikaru does return, he won’t see the shameless desire all over Pavel’s face. His fingers are nearly trembling around the communicator.

 _“Have you missed me, pet?”_ Khan’s voice is audible silk. It makes Pavel shiver. He nods without thinking.

“It has been so long. Too long.” He’s spent every single night _waiting_ , no matter how tired, hoping for this. He wouldn’t dare call first; that isn’t how the game works. He wouldn’t dare touch himself; his pleasure feels so much _better_ when reserved for Khan. Going from rigorous sex several times a day to none at all hasn’t been easy, but Pavel is loyal and good and desperately wants to be rewarded. He licks his lips and adds, nearly moaning, “I hawe missed you _so_ much.”

Khan chuckles. The sound makes Pavel giddy, just like most of Khan’s do; everything that comes out of his mouth is an aphrodisiac to Pavel’s hungry ears. He never knew he had a voice kink before Khan. But then, no one else has a voice like Khan. He knows Hikaru’s waiting, but... he wants to slink to the floor and touch himself to Khan’s guidance, since he can’t have Khan’s talented hands... _“What are you up to, Ensign?”_

“I am supposed to be exercising with Hikaru,” Pavel breathes, too husky-sounding. “But you know I vill do whatewer you vish instead...”

 _“I know you will, Pavel. But... Lieutenant Sulu, is it?”_ Pavel doesn’t answer; he’s sure the hesitation is for show; Khan knows _everything_. _“It wouldn’t be fair to keep him waiting, especially when he’s expecting a chance to see you sweaty and panting...”_ Pavel bites his lip and folds in against the locker. He has an idea where this is going. They discussed it, however loosely. He wouldn’t have thought of it on his own, but for Khan... for Khan, Pavel would do _anything_. He groans just thinking about it, about getting on his knees for another man, Khan not even around to see it, but the knowledge alone strong enough to sustain them both. Pavel wouldn’t even come himself; he would do it just to prove Khan’s control over him, and then he would report back to his master and recount every detail, pledge his obedience and submissively ask for his next assignment. He presses the back of his hand over his mouth, hoping his noises haven’t already filtered out of the changing room. _“Is that what you’re going to do, my beautiful toy? Work up into a sweat to soak through your clothes and show off your pretty body to all your crewmates?”_ Pavel preens under the praise.

Pavel mumbles, “Just Hikaru.” Pavel knows Hikaru and knows he wouldn’t get Pavel in trouble for trying anything. But if Khan wanted, he’d invite the whole bridge crew down—more, even—anyone Khan wanted—and he’d please them all. Khan laughs; he must know.

_“That will do, pet. ...And what will you wear to your little date? Something thin, perhaps? Tight? Small?”_

“Nothing,” Pavel croons, “nothing if you want me to. I vill walk out just like this...”

_“Is there anyone else out there?”_

Forgetting himself again, Pavel shakes his head, then corrects, “Nyet, no, just Hikaru and I; we hawe it booked; we are supposed to fence...”

_“Listen to me very carefully, Pavel, because I’m only going to instruct you once, and I expect you to do everything I say. Do you understand?”_

“Yes.”

_“Good... first... do you have a water bottle?”_

Pavel glances at his closed locker, even though he knows there isn’t one there, then over by the sink in the corner; rows of bottled, synthesized water are neatly stacked. He repeats, “Yes,” and waits with bated breath.

 _“Good. Because I don’t want you to waste your booked time working up the sweat I want you to glisten with. Instead, you’re going to strip down to just your panties—I know you have them with you, because you’re a good boy like that, and you know I love how your cock and your ass look in them.”_ Pavel moans and presses his hips forward—he’s wearing them right now, has warn them too much, and they’re stretched taut; he’s getting hard just from Khan’s deep tone. _“Then you’re going to take a water bottle and you’re going to pour it all over yourself. You’re going to soak your panties through until they’re clinging to you and outlining everything. But you’re gong to keep yourself in them, because until I ordain to share it, your ass is still mine. In just your wet panties, you’re going to go out to meet your friend. You’re going to take one last look at him, because he’ll never be your friend quite the same way again; he’ll never be able to look at you without picturing you naked, without wanting to fuck you senseless; he’s going to see you as the greedy thing you are, the way you deserve to be looked at. Then you’re going to kneel down at his feet, and you’re going to beg to suck his cock until he’s fucking your throat raw. You’re going to lavish him as though he were me, even though he’ll never satisfy you like I could. When he comes, you’re going to pull away, and you’re going to let him come all over your chest. You’re going to lean over for it and shower in it. You’re going to tell him that he may use your mouth any time he likes, so long as you’ve asked permission from your master first. Then you’re going to get back up, come back here, put your uniform back on and walk through the halls with his cum gluing the fabric to your skin. When you get to your quarters, you’re going to sit at your console and hold open your uniform and show me the evidence that you’ve been a good boy. You’ll tell me all about it. Then, if you’ve been very good, I just might let you come yourself. How does that sound?”_

 _Perfect_. Pavel’s knees are shaking. He can’t take it. He wishes he had Khan instead. He wants to say something, anything, that will prolong the conversation, but his head’s too thin to manage. He mumbles a subservient, “Da.”

He doesn’t even get the customary ‘good boy’—fair enough, he’ll have to earn it—the communicator clicks off. Pavel whimpers and stares at it, willing it to restart. If he were more mischievous, he’d jerk himself off right here, smear his own seed on his chest, then run back to show off the evidence and earn more time with Khan. But Khan is too smart, he’d know, and Pavel’s too well behaved, and Pavel _wants_ to obey, wants to do every last thing he’s ever told. He’s always eager to serve aboard this starship, but he’s even more so in the proverbial bedroom.

He snaps the communicator shut. He puts it back in his pants pocket, but those are coming off a moment later; he hastily shoves them down his thighs and squirms out of them. He bundles both up inside his locker, and the lukewarm air of the changing room is just a tad cold around his exposed skin. The tile underfoot is colder. He heads to the sink and doesn’t bother to look at himself in the mirror over it: he knows what he looks like in his panties. He knows they’re too small—Khan bought them that way—and they’re stretched tighter with how aroused he is, even without being touched. White and laced with a pink trim, they’ll hold up even worse under water. Pavel takes a bottle off the shelf anyway and unscrews it.

He hesitates only a second, then hurriedly splashes his front, cursing under his breath with the sudden cold. It pours down his smooth chest and traces the trim lines of his stomach, trickling through the smattering of honey curls above his underwear. Pavel splashes himself again and holds the bottle around himself, pressing it against his spine with a short gasp—the water dribbles down his back and soaks over his ass. The thin material instantly clings to his skin, and Pavel can see it turning translucent, almost transparent, with each new river. Soon his shaft is completely visible, and he’s sure his ass is no better. He gets an instant streak of excitement—he looks absolutely _shameful_ —followed by embarrassment and mingled anticipation. When the bottle’s empty, he shakes it out just to be sure, and drops it in the washing chute.

He sucks in a breath, glances at the mirror, and tells himself adamantly that no man would say no to a free blow job, and if Hikaru does, well... Pavel will just have to pretend he’s had too much vodka. But he shouldn’t have to think about that. This is about Khan and Khan’s orders; Pavel’s life revolves around _Khan_ , and thinking that is so much more exhilarating than thinking out the consequences. Whatever happens, Khan will take care of him. 

It’s with a rigid, determined gate that Pavel heads for the door of the changing room. It’ll just be Hikaru, he tells himself, and really, Hikaru’s the best place to start. He hits the open doorway and turns to round the corner, only to stumble back a step, face to face with Hikaru, who stops just in time to not barrel into him.

Hikaru opens his mouth, probably to apologize, but no words come out. Instead, he just _stares_ , wide eyes slowly traveling down Pavel’s wet body. Hikaru’s shirtless himself—they tend to work up quite a sweat in these sessions—but his black pants are perfectly publicly acceptable, whereas Pavel’s attire is decidedly... not.

A few seconds of silent ogling pass, and then Hikaru’s cheeks are turning pink, then red, then he licks his lips and forces his eyes off Pavel’s crotch, looking up at Pavel’s face. He mumbles, “Um, Pavel...”

“I hawe a boyfriend,” Pavel blurts. He’s suddenly very red himself; he didn’t think through _how_ to do this, exactly. He had instructions, but... it’s his best friend; he needs to explain. He manages a hurried, “We, um, hawe a... a complicated relationship, and he... um, he would like me to— _I_ would like to—that is, if you are alright with it; if you are not, that is completely fine, but I just, um—” Stumbling to a stop, Pavel gives up.

He drops to his knees, a movement that comes surprisingly easily, and he looks up at his best friend. He licks his lips again and does exactly what Khan told him to. He begs, wanton and horny and so blatant than no other explanations should be necessary, “ _Please_ , Hikaru, may I suck your cock?” They’re close enough that it’s easy for Pavel to put his hands on Hikaru’s knees, and he leans in so that his face is only a few centimeters from Hikaru’s crotch, his eyes focused up at Hikaru’s gob-smacked face.

There’s already a bulge forming before Pavel’s nose. He resists the urge to nuzzle into it before he has permission, and he waits for Hikaru to say something. Hikaru doesn’t. Pavel waits awkwardly and then repeats, more hesitantly, “Hikaru...? Please? I... I vill be good; I promise; I’m wery good at it. Ah, at least, my boyfriend says so—he won’t mind, honest—w-we’re open, and he says... he says you can use me any time you like, if you like, so long as I ask him first—I... I _want_ you to use me any time... if you... if you want to...” He trails off weakly. Hikaru’s still quiet, still stuck open mouthed. But his crotch is hard; Pavel knows Hikaru’s gay. Pavel switches to the other route, letting the desperation worm into his voice by way of a lewd moan. “Hikaru, please, I really want to—it has already been so hard to work out vith you; you are _so_ hot, and you look so good when you are fencing, and I really, really want to know what your cock looks like, what it tastes like—I want it in my mouth, and I want to suck on you and please you and take care of you any time we are away from Earth and you want a warm mouth to fuck...”

Hikaru clamps a hand over his mouth. It gives Pavel a flicker of worry, but a second later Hikaru’s groaning around it, and Pavel knows he’s winning. Hikaru covers his red face, then looks back down at Pavel. He drops his hands and asks, “Are you serious?”

Pavel’s eyebrows knit together. He’s on his knees in wet panties, clinging to Hikaru’s shorts. It’s obviously not a joke. “Da, of course.” Pavel pauses, squirms. “I want to be your fucktoy.”

Hikaru seems to play with the words before he manages, “We... we have to talk about this...”

“I don’t want to talk,” Pavel whines. They’re both hard, but Pavel’s been so longer, and he doesn’t have any moral hesitations. He doesn’t want to wait. “I want to suck you.”

Hikaru tries to answer but just sort of flounders, then exhales shakily, rakes a hand through his black hair, and tries, voice, faltering, “Talk later?”

Pavel tilts his head, “And now...?”

“Now you...” he gestures down. Grinning, Pavel nods eagerly. Because it’s close enough to permission, Pavel presses his face deliberately into Hikaru’s clothed cock, inhaling. It’s already stiff, warm, and he can tell it’s large, knew it would be—not as big as Khan’s, of course, but no one ever is.... Hikaru mutters, “Shit,” and abruptly starts to push at the hem of his pants. Pavel helps pull them down. He’s practically clawing them away, and the second they’re down Hikaru’s thighs, a proud, thick cock bounces out to nearly slap Pavel’s face. He doesn’t let Hikaru finish discarding the clothing, just dives in, tongue darting out to trace a hard line right up the long shaft. Hikaru groans and turns—two steps and his back’s against the wall, giving him something to lean on. Pavel follows easily and doesn’t let Hikaru’s cock leave him for more than half a second—he’s lavishing it in little licks and wet kisses, and he nuzzles into it, purrs a shameful sound into Hikaru’s balls that might be Hikaru’s name or might be Khan’s.

Even if Khan isn’t here, Pavel feels his presence. He’s kneeling for Khan. He’s obeying Khan. He might as well have Khan’s collar around his neck, might as well have Khan’s hand holding him down by the hair, grabbing his head and shoving it on and off Hikaru’s cock. Pavel fills his mouth with Hikaru’s sac to cover his groans. He rolls both balls off his tongue and lets Hikaru’s length slide along his nose, and he nips at Hikaru’s inner thigh, mumbling, “You hawe a beautiful dick, Hikaru,” only he says it in that way where he moans Hikaru’s name, drawing out each syllable. Hikaru drops one hand to Pavel’s hair, petting it back, but he doesn’t fist or pull like Khan would. That’s fine. Pavel imagines Khan’s hands holding his own thighs to the floor, and he ruts shallowly into it as he kisses his way up to Hikaru’s tip. He opens his mouth wide and holds his tongue flat, eagerly waiting.

Hikaru doesn’t shove into him. Hikaru’s sweet, and he lets Pavel work, sliding forward dutifully, little bit by bit. It’s luxurious, in a way, knowing he can take his time, go at his own pace, and Hikaru’s kind to him, Hikaru will let him. But then, Pavel does also love to be _owned._ He thinks of Khan slapping him for being too slow, and he pushes himself faster, taking Hikaru’s entire length down his throat. Hikaru makes a gasping noise above him, maybe in surprise. Pavel _sucks_ like his life depends on it and tilts his head, corkscrewing down and half off. Then it’s back on the other way, sucking and stroking with his tongue, and the wet panties clinging to his dick are torture. He can’t get any leverage against the ground, not when he’s being held up by Hikaru’s cock. He knows Hikaru would take care of him if he asked, but he also knows he won’t ask. Not without his master’s permission. And he needs to be covered in cum first. The thought of his reward alone makes him purr around his mouthful, makes him bob with new vigor, on and off in a full, twisting motion. He takes every last millimeter of Hikaru’s length and pleasures Hikaru right down to the tip, and he slips his hands around Hikaru’s thighs to play with Hikaru’s balls, just teasing them lightly with his thumbs. Hikaru lets out a litany of noises that remind Pavel of when they’re working out, but so much hotter.

“Fuck, Chekov,” Hikaru swears near the end, and Pavel knows, always does, that he’s almost there. Pavel doesn’t slow for a second. He sucks and sucks and _wants_ to swallow down all of Hikaru’s cum, wants to fill his stomach—he’s missed that, over this week. Back home, he could drink Khan’s seed out of cups, Khan’s so virile; he could fill Pavel with load after load all day long, and now Pavel’s had to adjust to normal food and drink without any of his favourite desert, and he’s got a hot dick in his mouth and he _really_ wants the aftermath, but he has his orders. Maybe if he’s really good, Khan will let the whole crew come on him, stand around him in a circle and line up in the mess hall, and he can drown himself in his favourite treat...

Hikaru screams so suddenly that Pavel nearly jumps, but he’s trained and practiced and controls himself instead—he pushes off just in time. Hikaru’s cock bursts right in his face. Pavel shuts his eyes, cries out, gets a gob on his tongue and hurriedly grabs Hikaru’s shaft, pointing it down. The rest splatters Pavel’s collarbone and shoulders, trickling slowly down his chest. He holds it even after it’s done, and then he squeezes gently, making sure, and he leans up on his knees and rubs the tip against his skin. He wants to swallow the small bit he has in his mouth, but he’s better behaved than that. He scoops it off on his index finger and smears it across his nipple, doing the same with what’s clinging to his left eyelid and the bridge of his nose. He can feel Hikaru staring at him, but he’s too hard to care.

He kisses Hikaru’s spent cock and murmurs, “Zhank you.” When he looks up again, Hikaru’s breathing very hard and looking down in shock. Pavel doesn’t have any better explanations. Not for right now, anyway. He helps push up Hikaru’s pants—Hikaru being too dazed to do much—and then he gets back to his feet, though shaky.

He can’t think of anything to say other than another, “thank you,” and he leans in to peck Hikaru’s cheek.

Then he turns and practically runs back into the changing room, ready to throw his uniform on and race to his quarters. Maybe if he’s good, Khan will let him lick up the mess and let him touch himself, maybe even talk him through it. When Pavel leaves the changing room a scant two minutes later, uniform slowly soaking through and thoroughly sticking to him, Hikaru’s still propped against the doorway and calls after him, “Anytime...?”

Pavel, already several meters across the recreation deck, turns to insist, “Da!”


	3. Bones

The next time it happens, he’s on the bridge.

He’s in his seat at navigation, the subtle beep of his communicator blending seamlessly in with the usual background noise. He glances down, and out the corner of his eye, he can see Hikaru glancing over at him. Hikaru knows what that beep means. Pavel bites his lip and tries not to look at his best friend; he can see Hikaru turning red and fixing pointedly back on the viewscreen. They can’t do anything, not here.

But Pavel is a better boy than that. His fingers fly across the console, and in less than a second, he’s rerouted his personal communication channel across the tiny screen in the corner, something that wouldn’t be possible without his foresight. He’s set this all up. He’ll obey _anywhere_ , _anytime_. He hits the sequence for his pre-set message: _I’m on the bridge._

 _But you’re sick._ The panel tells him, scrolling across in innocent, neat block letters, that Uhura could probably trace but hopefully would never think to. _You feel terribly ill, Pavel. You should go to sickbay._

The transmission cuts. Pavel knows he’s staring at his console too intently. He can see that only one of Hikaru’s hands is on the board, the other in his lap. But they can’t both excuse themselves. Judging from the subject, Pavel has a new target anyway.

He feels awful doing this. But he does it. He turns in his seat, hesitates, sees that Captain Kirk is busy signing a PADD. Pavel waits until he’s handed it back to the young ensign at his arm, then mumbles, “Keptin?” Pavel’s said it so quietly that it’s a surprise when Kirk actually looks at him.

“Chekov?”

“I... I don’t feel vell, sir.” Lies, complete lies. It’s turning his cheeks hot, and hopefully that’ll lend to his condition. He’s always a good officer, but he’s a good slave to his master first. He feels even worse when Kirk’s handsome features twist into concern.

“Alright, go see Bones.”

Pavel nods and says, “Thank you, keptin.” As soon as he’s left his chair, Darwin’s slipping into it.

When he passes the captain’s chair, Kirk tells him, “Feel better, Ensign.” And Pavel nods and grins shakily and hurries off. He doesn’t slow down when the bridge doors close behind him, even though he’s not sure if he’s _really_ meant to go to sickbay. He doesn’t have to wonder long. His communicator rings again, and he’s got it out in a heartbeat.

Khan’s perfect voice is music to his ears, but Pavel turns the volume down anyway, passing the very public halls. _“You’re on your way to sickbay, Ensign?”_

“Yes, sir,” Pavel murmurs, head down as he passes a particularly burly looking security officer. He pretends he’s just speaking to a commanding officer on the other side of the ship, even though he really wants to moan and beg and profess his love. He beelines for the turbolift at the end, lesser-used than the main bridge one, while he waits for more instructions. He lets out a shaky sigh of relief when he’s locked in it alone.

_“Good girl.”_

Pavel blinks. It takes him a second to manage, “Girl, Sir?”

 _“Yes. That is how you’re going to go to sickbay, after all.”_ Pavel’s face is heating even worse, but he’s quiet and listens, leaning back against the turbolift wall as Khan’s deep voice rolls over him. _“That’s why you’re going to your quarters, you see. You’re going to get into your proper uniform, the easy-access one. The one I like so very much, that barely covers your ass, and you need to be careful with your cock to hide it. You’re not going to bother with stockings, because you don’t deserve extra clothes. You’re going to slip on a fresh pair of panties and tuck yourself in carefully so you look halfway decent and don’t poke out under your hem, even though no matter what you wear, you’re walking bait. Then you’re going to go down to sickbay, cry and beg until they give you the head doctor, and go into his private room. You’re going to sit up on a biobed and resist fucking yourself on all the instruments I’m sure he has. You’ll have to earn those. For now, you’ll tell your chief medical officer how dirty and sick you are. You’re going to tell him that you feel terribly empty and unfulfilled, and only his dick can cure you. Then you’re going to climb onto his lap, and pull down your panties, and stuff yourself full of his cock. You’re going to bounce up and down on it until you’re light-headed and useless. You’re going to make him come hard, and you’re going to make sure you catch all of his release in your panties. Then you’re going to come back to your quarters and show me the evidence and tell me all about your checkup, understand?”_

The doors open, and Pavel’s nodding furiously, then hurries to say, “Da.” A rigid-looking lieutenant strolls into the turbolift, thankfully barks the heading for the same section as Pavel’s quarters, and he rephrases to cover himself, “Yes, Sir.”

Khan, brilliant, ingenious Khan, must pick up on the tone change, because he’s back to a casual drawl, as though he didn’t just drive Pavel nearly mad with the need to come. _“You have your orders, Ensign.”_ The communicator clicks off, and Pavel flips it closed, shoving it into his back pocket. He has his orders. He’s going to seduce Dr. McCoy—he hopes Dr. McCoy is into men on at least some level, though maybe the dress will help—and he’s going to earn himself another night of lying in bed and touching himself to Khan’s instructions, that voice all he needs. By the time he gets to his quarters, he’s practically shaking. He misses Khan _so_ much.

But he has to wait. Their mission’s not even half over. He heads to the set of drawers near his bed and pulls open the top one, unfolding a short, yellow uniform; the standard female option for his post, though all officers have access to both designs. It never would’ve occurred to him to pack this one if Khan hadn’t asked. But Khan did, and now Pavel strips himself of his regular uniform, picturing the broad hands of his lover slipping the new, slinky fabric over his head. He’s already wearing his panties. He’s worn them this whole trip, except for the instances where he has to wash them, where he instead wears nothing. He’ll need them today to catch his evidence; he needs to prove to his master that he’s loyal, that he does everything he’s told. He tugs the short tube dress down his thighs, but no amount of tugging can make the skirt a decent length—it _is_ absurdly short, is easy-access. All of the uniforms like this are. But Pavel’s is worse; he’s sure Khan’s trimmed a few centimeters off.

Pavel pushes back to his feet anyway, slipping into his boots and debating a look in the mirror. He knows what he looks like in this uniform. Inappropriate and vulnerable. It doesn’t help that Khan’s voice has already stirred his lap. It isn’t that noticeable yet—Pavel’s thankfully not that big—but it’s still _not right_ for walking down the halls of a starship. There isn’t any choice. Pavel steels himself and squares his shoulders, psyching up to do this.

He’s out the doors a second later, forcing a sturdy gate towards the nearest turbolift. He has to keep pushing through, not let his hesitation hold him back. Everything went well with Hikaru. But he already knew Hikaru was gay, and he already had a rapport with Hikaru. Dr. McCoy is... well...

Pavel gets in the turbolift next to a felinoid redshirt and pretends she isn’t glancing down at him, even though she very much is. Not many male humans chose to wear the dress on their ship, and no one’s is so incredibly short. Pavel never has before—not aboard the Enterprise for all to see. As soon as the doors open on the sickbay level, Pavel’s practically flying out of them, leaving her behind. He ignores every person he passes and walks fast enough to keep his curls bouncing atop his forehead; the sooner he gets into the privacy of Dr. McCoy’s office, the better. At least he can get rejected in private.

Sickbay is slow today. It’s quiet, all but one bed empty, and the few nurses around seem to be more engrossed in private experiments than the sole patient. Pavel doesn’t see Dr. McCoy immediately and heads to the back, knowing he should probably ask someone for Dr. McCoy’s whereabouts but not wanting to. Around the back of sickbay are a few smaller rooms, which Pavel assumes to be offices or labs—he doesn’t spend much time in sickbay—and he walks briskly past them with quick glances at all their labels. The last one he comes to has Dr. McCoy’s name on it, and Pavel breathes a sigh of relief that he was able to find it on his own.

He lifts his hand to the keypad by the door, hesitates, tells himself that as scary as Dr. McCoy can be, Pavel is a trained officer and _he can do this_ —has to to please his master—and he taps it. Then he clamps his arms at his sides and stands up straight, imagining the announcement chime ringing on the other side. 

The door muffles some rustling, and then it slides halfway open, revealing Dr. McCoy in all his splendor: gruff and handsome and looking down at Pavel with the usual disgruntled scowl. Recognition flickers over it a second later, then concern; he asks, “You alright, Ensign?” When Pavel shakes his head, red as a dying star, Dr. McCoy seems to notice his attire and twists into a smirk. “I think you got on the wrong uniform, kid. Aren’t you usually in the pants?”

Pavel opens his mouth and struggles for words. Dr. McCoy, dressed in the usual blue uniform, has one arm draped across the doorway, barring entrance. Pavel forces himself to think instead of staring at Dr. McCoy’s broad shoulders and perfect figure, and somehow he manages to say, “I... I’m confused.”

Dr. McCoy lifts an eyebrow. “Confused?”

“Confused,” Pavel nearly whines, pressing a palm up to his forehead dramatically. “I... I just feel so dizzy and... and hot...” He winces, more at his own bad acting than any pain, but the smirk falls right off Dr. McCoy’s face. He frowns, back into concern, and straightens.

“You’d better come in.” He must not have much to do today, which would be a rare case for a senior officer, but he steps aside, gesturing Pavel right into his private office. Pavel, marveling at his luck, makes a show of stumbling inside—he grips the counter on the right and uses it like a crutch. Dr. McCoy is instantly at his side, throwing an arm around his shoulders and helping him towards the biobed along the back wall. “Hey there, Ensign. Don’t overexert yourself.”

At the biobed, Pavel’s knees wobble, like he can’t possibly make a jump so high. He turns to face outward, hands back, but when he hikes up to land on the half-mattress-half-table, he deliberately falls short. Dr. McCoy catches him, grabs his hips easily, and lifts him up. Pavel, glowing at the touch, mumbles a timid, “Zhank you, Doktor.”

Dr. McCoy tells him, “Don’t mention it,” and lightly pats his hip. Then there’s a minute of staring at Pavel with a curious expression. Pavel knows that the screens on the wall behind him are automatically reading and displaying his vital functions, all of which should be perfectly normal. Eyeing them peripherally, Dr. McCoy retreats to a wheeled chair and pulls a medical tricorder out of his desk, wheeling back over after. A few taps on the side panel next to the biobed, and it jerkily lowers down, taking Pavel closer to Dr. McCoy’s height. Dr. McCoy starts to run the small transceiver over Pavel’s face and asks, staring down at his tricorder, “Your temperature isn’t out of the normal range. Aside from confused and dizzy, what other symptoms are you experiencing?”

Uncontrollable lust. Pavel thinks back to Khan’s words and bites his lower lip, looking aside to murmur, “I... I feel... dirty...” Dr. McCoy looks up sharply, the tricorder poised somewhere over Pavel’s lap. Sucking in nerve, Pavel rubs his thighs together and tries to purr, “I feel... I am terribly empty... and... and unfulfilled... I need to be filled up, Doktor...” He’s practically moaning. He feels ridiculous. Dr. McCoy is looking at him very oddly; he isn’t sure if he’s been clear or not. Either way, he’s gone too far to go back. He leans forward, shoulders hunched together, and asks, “Can you make me full, please...?” He can’t help himself from looking down; Dr. McCoy’s legs are spread in his chair, and Pavel knows, can tell from the size of the rest of him, that Dr. McCoy must be very large.

“Did Jim put you up to this?” Dr. McCoy’s voice has gone hoarse. It takes a second for Pavel to place the name; he’d never address the captain like that. He doesn’t understand, but Dr. McCoy looks serious.

“No.” Dr. McCoy looks unconvinced. Pavel shakes his head and insists, leaning further forward and licking his lips to keep them wet, “I am... I am genuinely hot and desperate and I wery much need a... a big man like you... to cure me.” Dr. McCoy’s eyebrow rises at the ‘big man’ comment, reminding Pavel vaguely of Mr. Spock. “Surely you can... can giwe me what I need, yes?” He bats his eyelashes and bites his lip coquettishly, and Dr. McCoy just _stares_ at him.

So he thinks of Khan, _Khan_ , his master, and he does what he has to in order to please his man. Pavel pushes off the biobed, tripping into Dr. McCoy’s lap. He throws his arms out to latch around Dr. McCoy’s broad shoulder, and Dr. McCoy catches him easily, steadying him in a heartbeat. Sitting sidesaddle, Pavel wiggles, rubbing his ass against Dr. McCoy’s lap. He can already feel a bulge in it, but the more he squirms, the bigger and harder it gets. He nuzzles his face into Dr. McCoy’s neck and moans, “Can you fix me, Doktor?”

Dr. McCoy swallows. Pavel can practically feel it. A large hand grabs his curls and yanks his head back; Pavel gasps and stays where he is, neck stretched almost painfully. Dr. McCoy holds him at bay, studies him, and finally mutters, “...You’re what now, eighteen?”

Older, actually, however young he looks. Dr. McCoy could check the files but doesn’t. Pavel breathes, “Da.”

That’s all it takes. Pavel doesn’t have time to beg again. He’s shoved off of Dr. McCoy’s lap so violently that the chair actually recoils backwards, and Pavel stumbles to his feet. He’s slammed against the edge of the biobed, stomach turning and buckling over it as Dr. McCoy holds him down. Pavel’s skirt is long enough to hold up under that angle; he can feel it ride up his ass, his cheeks slipping out. He hears Dr. McCoy whistle, maybe over the sight of his panties, and he’s held down with one large hand while the drawer behind him clatters open. There’s barely a second of fishing around in it before Pavel’s panties are being roughly shoved down his thighs.

He braces himself to be fucked hard, immediately and without any preparation, but instead, Dr. McCoy’s gruff voice asks him, “You sure you want this, kid? You’re trembling, and you guessed right when you called me a big man.”

“Nyet, no—I want it,” Pavel insists, standing on tiptoe to perk his ass higher. He doesn’t care that it’s bare, that Dr. McCoy can see everything. When he looks over his shoulder, Dr. McCoy is holding up a long, thin rod Pavel’s never seen before—some medical instrument? He adds a tentative, “Please.”

Dr. McCoy gives him a broad grin that’s more of a smirk. He lowers his hand, and Pavel loses sight of the instrument. It’s easy to tell where it went, though. Something cold and hard presses between his cheeks, runs down and makes him shiver. It pokes at his hole, and then Dr. McCoy is grabbing Pavel’s wrists, forcing them back—Pavel’s made to grab his own cheeks and hold them open. It’s a position he’s more than used to—Khan always enjoys looking at him, sticking things in him or making him hold onto things with his hole. He hopes he isn’t going to have to hold onto the rod—that wasn’t in Khan’s instructions.

It does stick into him. Pavel bites off his gasp and digs his face into the biobed, even though it doesn’t smell particularly pleasant. The instrument is dry and cold, but thin enough not to tear. It still feels wrong. He’s taken enough toys to get past the intrusion. Except that this isn’t a toy; it’s some unknown medical instrument that Dr. McCoy keeps pushing further and further into Pavel’s ass, until he’s shaking almost violently and starting to sweat from nervousness.

Dr. McCoy pets his back and soothes, “Good boy. It’s almost in. There’s a good ensign. There.” The rod stops moving, and something snaps—a button clicking? Then it’s moving again, but not deeper, it’s... “It’ll stretch you out and lube you up—just a handy little thing for certain exams. Nothing to be worried about.” Pavel looks around incredulously at Dr. McCoy, but he already knows it isn’t a joke; he can _feel_ the strange device leaking a thick liquid and widening inside him. It’s an incredibly bizarre feeling. He’s felt alien toys before, but this...

This doesn’t stop when he expects it to. It just keeps getting bigger and _bigger_ , and Pavel curls up around the biobed of his own accord, starting to subtly grind his hips and his cock against the edge. He won’t come, of course—he’s better trained than that. But this feels like a strange version of getting fucked, and that still makes him horny. This is going faster than fingering and lube. Maybe Khan should get one of these. But then, Pavel doesn’t mind taking his master raw, no matter how much it hurts. He’s not adverse to pain in the pursuit of pleasure. He doesn’t bother to tell the doctor that. It’s only a few more seconds before Dr. McCoy tugs the rod out, leaving Pavel’s now stretched and leaking channel horrendously empty. He gasps and lets go of his ass, but Dr. McCoy grabs his wrists and shoves them back into place.

Then something else probes at Pavel’s entrance, and he recognizes the feeling instantly. Something spongy and warm and organic. Pavel’s only regret is that he can’t see it from this angle. It’s probably glorious.

It slams into him all in one go, and Pavel _shrieks_ , his back arching up and his knees shaking as he’s filled to the brim with a huge helping of cock. Dr. McCoy is big, very big, in his haze, Pavel thinks it might even be close to Khan—or at least, as close as anyone else could come. This office better be sound proof. Dr. McCoy pushes right to the base and grinds against Pavel’s ass; Pavel can feel the scratch of Dr. McCoy’s pubic hair and the bounce of heavy balls against his upper thighs. Dr. McCoy keeps hold of his hands and slides partially out, hissing along the way, “ _Fuck,_ you’re tight, Chekov.”

Pavel manages, “Th-thank you, Sir.” He’s slammed back into before he can say anything else. Dr. McCoy’s thrusts are brutal, and Pavel takes half a dozen before he realizes his mistake; these weren’t his orders. He struggles in his distress, and Dr. McCoy lets go of his hands—he was supposed to ride Dr. McCoy’s cock, not get fucked over a table. He pushes up, recoiling as soon as his back hits Dr. McCoy’s chest, and he looks over his shoulder and asks, “P... please, can I ride you instead?”

Dr. McCoy squints at him like he’s crazy. This whole thing is crazy. But there’s no bother with protest; Dr. McCoy’s strong arms loop abruptly around Pavel’s middle and drag him back. Pavel stumbles, Dr. McCoy now buried snugly inside of him and guiding his every step. He falls down when he’s pulled, landing in Dr. McCoy’s lap, safe in the wheeled chair. Pavel’s own weight keeps him impaled, and he leans his head back on Dr. McCoy’s shoulder, wanting nothing more than to collapse under Dr. McCoy’s talented ministrations.

But he was ordered to do it himself, and he does. He lifts up on his shaking thighs, and he drops back down—he screams—and he does it again. He holds onto the arms of the chair and tries to find purchase against the floor, and he makes himself bounce up and down on his doctor’s dick like his master wants. Dr. McCoy just grabs his hips and grunts appreciatively. He lets Pavel do all the work. Pavel does. This new position has his legs spread and is stretching his panties too much—he should’ve taken them off. He can’t afford to let them break; he’ll need them to follow instructions. He pulls his knees closer together and drops his hands to Dr. McCoy’s thighs—large and still clothed, and fucks himself as hard as he can.

Another dozen thrusts and he needs more, wants more, but can’t think of doing anything else. Dr. McCoy’s hands lift him suddenly, and Pavel stumbles up to his feet—Dr. McCoy slaps his sore ass. Pavel nearly topples over, but Dr. McCoy’s still holding him and simply spins him around like a toy ballerina.

Then he’s pulled back into Dr. McCoy’s lap, positioned right and shoved back into. Now that he’s facing Dr. McCoy, it’s easier to bury his face under Dr. McCoy’s strong chin, clutch to Dr. McCoy’s blue tunic and breathe in the raw, masculine smell that always makes him high.

Dr. McCoy’s hips jut up to take him even as Pavel tries to help, tries to bounce properly. His own cock is slapping uselessly against his chest, but when Dr. McCoy tries to touch it, Pavel pushes the larger hand away and insists, “No, no, please...” Dr. McCoy tilts his chin up and brings them together. Dr. McCoy’s mouth is warm and wet and a little chapped, and Pavel’s filled with a strong tongue before he can make any more noise. Dr. McCoy’s fist wraps around his shaft and Pavel nearly convulses.

He pushes it away again, breaks the kiss and pants, “No, I don’t want... just want to please you...” He wants to look away, knowing how red he is, but instead he looks Dr. McCoy straight in the eye. He needs it clear that that’s true. He _wants_ to be used. His orgasm will be so much better if he earns it. He needs to earn it. He needs to come only for _Khan_. Dr. McCoy stares at him.

On the next harsh kiss, Pavel’s cock is left alone, even as his chest’s smashed up against Dr. McCoy’s, the uniforms between them a constant reminder of exactly where they are. Pavel wraps his arms tight around Dr. McCoy’s neck and throws himself into the slew of kisses and relentless thrusts, while Dr. McCoy’s hands slip up his thighs and under his dress and explore his body. He shivers at the thought of his next physical. Maybe Dr. McCoy can test his gag reflex then. This is the best trip to sickbay Pavel’s ever had.

And as soon as it rushes to an end, Pavel has to break the spell. They’re kissing too much for Dr. McCoy to give him warning, but Pavel’s trained, and he springs to action the second he feels the change in Dr. McCoy’s cock, the sudden spurt of hot liquid inside him. He shoves back against Dr. McCoy’s chest, lifting up on his knees—the thick cock inside him springs out and Dr. McCoy swears. Pavel mumbles, “Sorry, sorry.” Then he busies himself with grabbing that cock and his own panties, tugging them open and pointing Dr. McCoy’s cock down. He squeezes carefully and pumps as he goes, intent on milking out as much as he can. He fills his panties up with Dr. McCoy’s release, some of it already trickling out his hole along with the medical lube. Dr. McCoy allows him the strange ritual, or is maybe just too caught up in the orgasm to care.

When Dr. McCoy’s done, Pavel whimpers. He doesn’t want it to be over; he’s still very much involved. But the next part will come in his quarters. He pushes and squirms his way off Dr. McCoy’s lap, releasing the pulsing cock in his palm, and gets back to the floor. It’s difficult to stand. He hikes up his went panties while Dr. McCoy watches, fully aware of how messy it is when he tries to stuff his own hard-on inside the damp fabric. He tries to pull the hem of his skirt down over himself, but the tent is incredibly noticeable. Pavel whines and pushes down until he’s sure his skirt’s going to break, and then he fidgets and looks over at his victim, who’s sitting, dazed, in the chair.

“Thank you for curing me, Doktor,” Pavel finally settles on. “I... please let me know when my next physical is.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dr. McCoy grunts. Then he seems to shake himself awake and gestures at Pavel’s crotch. “But aren’t you forgetting something there, kid?”

“No.” Dr. McCoy doesn’t look convinced. Pavel distracts him with a quick kiss to his cheek and a purred, “Pleasing you is all that matters to me.” Then he straightens back up, readjusts his skirt even though it’s a losing cause, and heads for the door. His ass is sore and his cock and balls are now glued to his panties, but Pavel has plenty of experience taking pain and humiliation in public. He marches out of sickbay with his head down.

He heads for the turbolift in a blurred rush. He should’ve brought his communicator. The doors open, and he bolts for his quarters.


	4. Scotty

The second the turbolift doors close, Pavel lets out a moan and leans against the wall, curling up to the painted metal. He’s ready to recoil into strict professionalism at any moment, but his communicator beeps before any doors open. Pavel cancels his destination, and the turbolift, apparently unneeded by anyone else (he’s late off alpha shift; perhaps everyone else has already reached their new duty station) dawdles to a stop. He pulls the communicator out, snaps it open, and resists asking what he wants to.

Khan asks for him, _“Do you want to take your beads out?”_

Pavel wants _Khan_ to take the beads out, but that isn’t an option. Back home, he was rarely allowed to remove toys from his ass. He sometimes put them in, as per his master’s instructions, but more often, everything happened by Khan’s hand. Pavel preferred it that way. Now, he’s left to sit through entire shifts with an uncomfortable string of solid objects shoved up his channel. None of them are at the right angle to give pleasure—something Pavel made sure of—but the discomfort is still a problem. He feels sore from the inside, and his body keeps trying to naturally push them out, or at least, every time he consciously thinks about it.

He thinks he’s mostly screwed himself over, put himself off his game by missing Khan too badly, not wanting to play without him. Pavel mumbles, ashamed of himself, “Yes, Sir.”

_“And how have your lessons in Engineering gone?”_

Pavel has another pause, this time over surprise; that came out of nowhere. He can’t handle two separate trains of thought right now. “Um, well?”

_“Well?”_

“Meester Scott says I hawe an aptitude for it,” Pavel elaborates, slipping easily into eager pupil mode. “I hawe been helping him whenewer I can get away.”

 _“And when you’re not busy pleasing your other clients,”_ Khan clarifies for him. Pavel colours; he hadn’t thought of them quite that way. They don’t pay him. But Pavel’s had several physicals with Dr. McCoy since his first ‘appointment,’ and it’s rare now to spend time with Hikaru without taking, riding, or sucking his cock at least once. There’ve been a few redshirts that’ve taken Pavel in various nooks and crannies of the ship, and he’s shown up at a few quarters that Khan’s supposedly contacted on his own, set up for Pavel. Khan knows of every encounter, of course. Every time someone calls to use Pavel, he checks with his master, takes additional instructions, pledges his undying loyalty, and returns after to recount everything. The more he lends himself out to his shipmates, the more Khan talks to him at night. The more of Khan’s perfect voice Pavel gets. The harder Pavel inevitably comes. He sometimes wonders if he’ll end up having taken every gay, bisexual, pansexual, or even remotely interested man on this ship by the time they get back to Earth, assuming Khan even keeps it limited to men.

Pavel licks his hips and mutters uselessly, “Yes, Sir.”

_“Poor Scott. I’m sure he thinks he’s getting you whenever you can get away. But we both know that you only slink to him when you’re not on your knees for someone else, and you haven’t even made it up to him properly yet...”_

Pavel breathes, feeling hot in the little turbolift, “I’m sorry...”

 _“No, you’re not,”_ Khan decides lightly. _“You’re a slut. You love it and you’re not sorry about it.”_

“I’m a slut,” Pavel repeats. He’s starting to get hard, even though he’s trying not to. Khan always has that affect. It probably doesn’t matter. He knows where this is going.

Khan tells him succinctly, _“Go have your engineer take those beads out of your ass and fuck you.”_ Khan cuts the transmission the second the last word’s out of his mouth, and Pavel stares at the communicator in shock—that’s it? He wants more. So much more. He wants Khan to describe for him every little detail of what to do, how to play it. Khan usually does tell him more. A flicker of panic slithers through Pavel’s veins for no good reason—he doesn’t think Khan’s mad at him. He knows he hasn’t done anything wrong. _But he wants more of Khan’s voice._ When the turbolift jerks to life without any prompting on his part, Pavel nearly jumps out of his skin.

He barks, “Engineering.” He can feel it shift and reroute below his feet. He shoves his communicator into his back pocket again and clenches his ass around the beads just to feel them, feel the reminder of his _Khan_.

A moment later, and the doors are opening to the raw metal floor of Engineering, open and bustling and lined with so many different kinds of cargo and crew in red shirts that no one looks at Pavel twice. He walks fast and purposefully through them, making his way straight to Mr. Scott’s office.

It’s by sheer luck that Mr. Scott’s there. It’s only really an office in name—Mr. Scott tends to float everywhere, checking everything, always at work on his precious engines. Normally, Pavel finds that admirable.

Today, he’s glad it’s not the case. He closes the door behind himself, even though he’s never seen Mr. Scott close the door.

Mr. Scott barely seems to notice; he’s bent over a computer in the back, rapidly entering figures in a continuous stream. Pavel instantly recognizes the prized trans-warp equation, but for once, he has something more interesting in mind.

He stands behind Mr. Scott and breathes, “Meester Scott?” It comes out as a sort of tiny squeak. Normally, Pavel has to mentally prep himself more than this. But Khan’s abrupt instructions have left him similarly short; he’s hyperactive and desperate to race to the end, to get more that way. In the back of his mind, he knows, trusts, that Khan wouldn’t tell him to do anything he couldn’t get away with. He waits for Mr. Scott to look at him, breath bated, fidgets, and tries to figure out how to word this.

Mr. Scott takes an extra few seconds, during which Pavel thin-headedly comes up with nothing, and then looks at Pavel with the sort of smile that says his work is going exceptionally well. He asks, “Here for another lesson, laddie?”

Pavel blurts, “I need your help.”

“You need my help?” Mr. Scott repeats, looking mildly startled. He chuckles and shuts down the file he’s working on, straightening up and turning around properly. It isn’t often that Pavel asks for help; he’s the ensign, and he’s there to provide help to his superiors. Mr. Scott is wearing the sort of expression that says Pavel can have whatever he likes, which is really something that shouldn’t be preemptively offered. “What with?”

“I... well...” Pavel pauses, crosses his arm over his chest to scratch at his other arm, and comes up with nothing better than, “I... it’s very embarrassing, but... I seem to have gotten something... something stuck...” He’s turning redder by the second. _Stuck_. Like it’s even at all possible to have anal beads in by accident. Mr. Scott opens his mouth, clearly about to ask where, and Pavel blurts, “...Inside me.”

Mr. Scott stares at him. Blinks, then stares some more.

Pavel shifts his feet.

“In... inside you?”

Pavel just nods. He sniffs and feels childish. “Well, I... I suppose it wasn’t really an accident...” Obviously.

“And you want me to...?”

“Take them out.” It takes a considerable amount of courage to keep up and stare Mr. Scott in the eyes, making it very clear he’s being serious. This isn’t some weird, bizarre joke. For a good while, Mr. Scott’s face is blank, and he’s uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Twice, he tries to say something and fails.

Finally, he manages, “Shouldn’t you... maybe that’s more fer Dr. McCoy...”

“No,” Pavel mumbles, shaking his head. He neglects to mention that he’s already seen Dr. McCoy for similar problems. “I want you.” If he could blush any deeper, he would. That’s not how he meant to phrase it. But he doesn’t take it back.

“Me.”

“You.”

Finally, Mr. Scott’s face heats up; his pale complexion turns pink in his cheeks, across his nose, and all the way up to his ears. Pavel shrinks back, sure he’s about to get yelled at. Instead, Mr. Scott looks nervously at the door, must see it’s closed, looks back and nearly hisses, “Look, lad, if this is a joke—”

“It’s not a joke!”

“Why would you—?”

“Meester Scott, _please_ ,” Pavel whines, because if Mr. Scott doesn’t get on board, Pavel knows he’s going to be in trouble with more than just his boyfriend. He’s sure Mr. Spock can already see him getting more and more unprofessional, and if the captain found out, he could lose his position, and he worked too hard for that. “I-I’m wery serious. I know this is a strange way to go about it, but I... I really appreciate all the extra lessons you hawe giwen me, and I think y-you’re very attractive—” Which is true; seeing those magic hands and brilliant mind fix the most lost-soul machines would give anyone butterflies, “—and I would wery much appreciate if you would take some time out of fixing the Enterprise and fix _me_.” He takes a step closer while he’s talking, and he bats his lashes, trying to look as cute as possible, which must be working, because on his next step forward, Mr. Scott steps back. He stumbles against the counter of the work desk he never sits at, and there’s nowhere to go. Pavel chews on his bottom lip while he waits for an answer.

When he doesn’t get one in a whole two minutes, he steps aside and puts his hands on the desk, so close that his arm’s brushing Mr. Scott’s. Both their uniforms are in the way. Pavel sticks his ass out and begs, “Please? I’ve seen your hands work wonders on so many other things, can’t you help my body, too? I would be so grateful...”

Mr. Scott eyes the door like he expects the whole bridge crew to burst through and cart him off to jail. He licks his lips. That’s when Pavel knows he’s winning. He finally allows a small smile, cooing, “I need to be fixed; I’m all clogged up, and I need to be un-jammed and lubed and given a long, hard test ride...”

Mr. Scott snaps. Sometimes it takes a bit of coaxing, but they usually break eventually. Pavel knows he’s asking Mr. Scott to break the rules, dallying with those directly under his command, but at this point, it must be obvious he’s not going to tell. Mr. Scott finally steps behind him and mutters, “I better take a look then...” His accent’s steeped thicker: a sure sign he’s riled up.

He grabs Pavel’s pants on either side and hesitates. Pavel puts his hands over them and pushes down, looping his thumbs into his panties to bring them along. It leaves his ass completely bare to the cold, stale air of Engineering, the only exception the little string off the beads. As soon as the job’s done, he leans back over the counter, having to brush tricorders and machine parts carefully aside. He can feel Mr. Scott’s eyes on him, and he chances pushing back just enough to rub himself against the front of Mr. Scott’s uniform pants. There’s a bulge there. Pavel should’ve checked earlier. He pulls back and reaches one hand to grab one cheek of his ass, spreading it open to better show his problem. He twitches his hole, still clenched around the last bead. Mr. Scott kindly doesn’t mention that the string clearly shows that Pavel could’ve done this himself.

Mr. Scott grabs it and tugs all at once; Pavel gasps and arches. He expected something slow, steady, careful at least—but Mr. Scott pulls fast and hard. The first bead’s barely popped out when the second one’s teasing Pavel’s hole. He barely has time to unclench. He managed to get every last one inside, but they’re popping out one by one as if it’s nothing, as if Mr. Scott would tug a hundred out in one go. A part of Pavel is relieved as he rapidly regains his channel, but the rest of him can’t help but think this would’ve been better with Khan.

But then, _everything_ would be better with Khan. And Pavel probably should’ve known that Mr. Scott fixes everything in record time. The last bead pops out and knocks into the others; Pavel hears them hit the floor. Just as he’s looking back over his shoulder, Mr. Scott’s reaching over him. The lid on one of the canisters atop the desk is quickly screwed off, and Mr. Scott scoops a healthy amount of brown-black muck onto his fingers. “You want a test ride, huh?”

Pavel nods meekly, neglecting to say that he’s already prepared, always is, and he didn’t quite expect to be taken with engine grease, of all things. Mr. Scott’s hand disappears behind him a second later, and Pavel hears a belt fumbling, clothes rustling—pants hitting the floor. The liquid doesn’t dribble onto his ass, so he assumes Mr. Scott is lathering up his own cock, which Pavel glances back and cranes up to see.

Short, fat. That’s the only impression he gets before it’s disappeared into the crevice of his ass, pushing at his already gaping hole. The beads left him sensitive and twitching. The head of Mr. Scott’s dick pushes at the abused brim until it’s popped inside. Pavel has a sharp intake of breath, and it’s already shoving deeper. It _is_ fat; the girth is bigger than the beads, and Pavel’s walls flutter to accommodate. A hand wraps around his middle, digging between his stomach and the desk to cradle him. Pavel wants to hold it, but instead he grabs the edge of the desk, just a few centimeters from the wall. He has a feeling he’s going to need a good grip. Mr. Scott drapes closer over him for each new push inside, until his stomach’s flattened along Pavel’s back, and Pavel thinks they should’ve stripped off their tunics—he knows he’s going to overheat. Mr. Scott burrows up to the brim, big balls digging into Pavel’s cheeks, and Pavel whimpers in delight, wriggling in thanks. Maybe this is why Khan didn’t give more detail; he knew Mr. Scott wouldn’t play with toys as much as Pavel guessed.

Pavel wonders vaguely if he’s going to get fucked the same way: brutal and quick. That would be good, he supposes. The faster it is, the better chance they’ll be able to find time to do this during every lesson.

Maybe next time, they can use Mr. Scott’s own toys. It would probably last longer then. Pavel wouldn’t mind having a busted pipe stuck inside him or a stray wire wrapped around his wrists or cock. He wouldn’t mind licking grease of Mr. Scott’s shoes anymore than he’d mind licking Mr. Scott’s cum off the floor of a shuttle.

Mr. Scott gives him a good, hard shove into the front of the desk, just to make sure there’s no room left. Pavel hisses, takes it, and resists the urge to rub his hard-on against the dulled edge of the counter. He half expects Mr. Scott to grab his hips and start plowing mercilessly into him, but instead, Mr. Scott keeps holding onto him with an almost tender sort of care, blanketing him and nuzzling into the back of his neck. Mr. Scott murmurs, sounding half-drunk with lust, “Ready, lad?”

Pavel nods too eagerly and groans, “ _Da_.”

He’s rewarded with a powerful thrust that nearly slams his fingers into the wall. He lets go and settles for flat palms on the cool surface, his back on fire from the friction of all their clothes. Mr. Scott makes a grunt of pleasure and repeats it, then again, and suddenly he’s in a wave of steady, full-throttle thrusts, so precisely timed and even that Pavel may as well be milked by a machine. He barely notices any shift in angles, but then his prostate is rammed, and he screams, and every beat that follows hits that perfect spot. Pavel presses his forehead to the desk while Mr. Scott nips at the back of his neck.

“You feel mighty good, Chekov,” Mr. Scott hisses, then a moment later, a groan and a disembodied, “So _tight_ ,” and a languid, “Blood hell, you naughty wee boy...” Pavel sucks in each little compliment and tries to lean into every hit, but Mr. Scott’s firmly in the driver seat. He slams home with a slick ease that makes Pavel shudder. He can already feel the grease leaking down his crack, dribbling along his taint to his balls. He’s sure it’s going to stain his panties, and not for the first time, he’s glad their uniform pants are black. Next time, he’ll have to take everything else off properly and beg Mr. Scott to fuck him like a dog, on all floors in the semi-public seclusion of a shuttle.

Or more likely, he’ll have to do whatever it is Khan tells him to, and he’ll love every second. He’s already formulating in his head what he’ll report; Mr. Scott is shorter than average but _so_ thick, and he’s methodical and thorough and fucks like he works. He didn’t waste time on toys; he fixed the problem and got right down to enjoying the spoils, or trying out that ‘test ride.’ Pavel’s not sure he could unhinge his jaw enough to take all of Mr. Scott in his mouth, but he hopes he gets to try.

He’s hard and it hurts. There’s a flicker of pain every time the underside of Pavel’s cock rams into the desk, but he’s not about to touch himself. He’s half surprised when Mr. Scott’s hand runs up his thighs, feeling and mapping every bit of him before cupping his cock. Pavel moans as his small balls slam against the side of Mr. Scott’s hand with each thrust, his cock pulsing and appreciative of the new shielding. Mr. Scott palms him gently, then wraps around him. Mr. Scott is half-kissing, half-biting his neck, and Pavel would turn around to kiss back, but he almost prefers being inactive; Mr. Scott is off at work, and Pavel’s not a lover so much as a doll, a toy, a human-machine to be run and tested. He whimpers against the desk instead and takes each merciless slam with grace. When Mr. Scott squeezes Pavel’s cock, he sees stars.

Mr. Scott is a kind lover. Pavel should’ve known that. He wasn’t told any details, so he lets himself be steadily jerked off, perfectly in sync with every brutal stab. He can feel his ass burning hot, probably turning red, and he can feel the head of his cock start to leak the more Mr. Scott’s grease-slicked hand pumps him. His head starts to thin the closer and closer he gets—no matter how many times he’s used and fucked and pounded into, he never quite loses the feeling of total dizziness. He isn’t working up a callous. Mr. Scott bites along his ear and mutters, “Yeh gonna come fer me, Ensign?” Pavel nods obediently, wanting nothing more than to please.

He explodes in Mr. Scott’s hand, grateful that Mr. Scott caps him, protecting the table and his uniform. He shudders through his release, writhing and crooning uselessly while Mr. Scott keeps taking him.

A couple thrusts later, and Mr. Scott hisses, tensing up. He bursts inside Pavel, cries something too crude for Pavel to understand, and starts to slow. Pavel takes it with a wanton sort of love; getting filled is one of his favourite parts.

Then Mr. Scott’s slowed to nothing, and he’s a heavy, sweaty, panting mess atop Pavel’s back. He doesn’t move.

Pavel doesn’t either.

After several minutes, Pavel mumbles happily, “I zhink you fixed me.”


	5. Spock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to abbeyjewel, who's betaed pretty much this whole fic for me!

For the first time in a long time, Pavel has a spare night, and he’s using it to sulk.

He’s curled up in bed, still dressed but under the covers, shoes kicked off. He doesn’t touch any of the PADDs on his desk, doesn’t bother pouring over extra work or studies. He just keeps his head buried in the pillow. He’s frustrated—letting off steam. It’s not _really_ his fault. Well, okay, yes it is—but it’s hardly against the rules. It’s all completely consensual, and it’s all been on his off-hours—or all the parts he’s been caught for, anyway. And he hasn’t even really been _caught._ Just... walked in on in the midst of re-dressing, and once rubbing on a senior officer, and once ‘staining the knees of his uniform pants,’ as Commander Spock so eloquently put it.

Pavel’s not exactly sure if Mr. Spock knows _why_ exactly he was on his knees in front of Mr. Hendorff, but it doesn’t really matter. What does is that he was thoroughly scolded and narrowly avoided an official reprimand. It’s the first time Pavel’s truly been in trouble since the start of his commission, and it’s not at all a good feeling.

Mostly, he’s disappointed in himself; as important as it is to be a good pet for his master, he does want to be a good officer. He does want his senior officers’ respect. He should’ve been more cautious. He’s supposed to be smarter than that.

His communicator goes off, and Pavel snaps to attention. The little metal device is on the other pillow, within easy reach and hearing range. He snaps it open in a flash and sniffs, trying to steady out his voice.

Khan says first, _“Pavel. Tell me what’s wrong.”_ It’s not a question—just a demand. Pavel barely suppresses a shiver, and his free hand clenches in the sheets, wanting to run down his body. It’s rare that Khan should catch him in bed this early—is it too early to touch himself to Khan’s voice? He probably won’t be able to earn it so fast. But that would make him feel exponentially better. 

_Khan_ makes him feel better, and Pavel sighs, “I was reprimanded.”

A pause, and then Khan purrs, _“For being a naughty boy?”_

“Yes, but... it was by Commander Spock. He said I hawe been showing... unprofessional behaviour.” His throat tightens. It’s true, but that doesn’t make it sting any less. Khan clicks his tongue: a noise somewhere right between pitying and mocking. Pavel can feel his cheeks flush; he wants to run home to Khan and be brutally spanked, then beg for forgiveness. They’re more than halfway through the mission. It won’t be long until he sees Khan. But every day he has to wait is torture.

_“And what did you do exactly, when he told you that filthy little sex-crazed pets like you don’t belong on big starships full of better, more important men?”_

Mr. Spock didn’t say it anything like that, but Pavel still shivers and gets a thrill out of the rephrase. “I... I suppose I just stood there and took it. I felt wery guilty.”

 _“Because you are very guilty. You’re a dirty boy, Pavel Chekov, and you have no business being on your feet in front of real officers like Mr. Spock. You know as well as he does that you belong on the floor, a tool to be ordered about and used, that you don’t deserve to wear that uniform or anything at all...”_ Pavel’s eyes flutter closed, the communicator coming closer and closer into his ear. It’s suddenly very hot under the blankets, but Pavel curls deeper into them all the same, breathing heavier and heavier with each passing insult out of Khan’s beautiful mouth. _“...But then, why would Mr. Spock want to see your bare body? You’ve shown it to every man on this ship; there’s nothing sacred in your sex anymore. Besides, he probably enjoys seeing that uniform on you; it’s what gives him the power to corner little, helpless things like you, pin you up against the wall and tear you down, degrade you and hiss at you about how filthy you are, how you’d be better off as a yeoman meant just for the senior officers to fuck, rather than a useless piece of eye candy that dares to sit on the bridge...”_

Pavel breaks into the tirade with a moan. He tries to turn his head into the pillow to stifle it, but he isn’t quite fast enough. Khan has a way of repainting whole chunks of Pavel’s life, and he’s all too happy to re-imagine his memory, now with Mr. Spock flattening him into a wall and spitting on him. His sullen mood is officially gone.

Khan must know it too, because his sensual purring filters easily into order mode; Pavel straightens, listening intently to every syllable. _“Now, since you thoroughly deserve that verbal spanking, I think it’s high time you apologize.”_ Pavel’s breath hitches, awaiting details. _“I think it’s best that you seek out Mr. Spock. If he doesn’t spend his few off-hours in his quarters, I suggest you take him back there, because you’re going to get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness. I’d tell you to kiss his boots, but it wouldn’t be very logical to use your mouth once it was dirtied, and you very much want him to use your mouth, don’t you, Pavel? You’re going to spill all sorts of apologies out of it.”_ Pavel doesn’t answer; he doesn’t have to. He pushes his fist against his inner thigh in lieu of touching his crotch. _“You’re going to kiss his hand instead, and you’re going to bestow each finger with the respect it deserves. I’m sure you’re aware how much Vulcans appreciate their hands. You’re going to show him that you understand that; that your ability to pleasure unique aliens is an asset to the ship. In fact, you’re going to demonstrate that pleasure on Mr. Spock’s hand, until he’s forgiven you enough to fuck your tight throat with his hand. Now, perhaps the next Vulcan officer you pleasure will be easy enough to come in his pants when you treat his hands that way, but I think we both know that your Mr. Spock is a tougher customer. No, you may not get to taste his cum at all, but then, you might not be able to handle a Vulcan load until you’ve spent a bit more time training with me...”_ Pavel gives up. He rolls onto his front and starts to hump the mattress vigorously, imagining several other Vulcan crewmembers whose underwear he’ll likely end up licking out. But training with Khan... that’s the best prospect of all...

 _“Have him finger you,”_ Khan adds suddenly, and Pavel can tell from the tone that he’s throwing it in arbitrarily, randomly tacking on more tasks to put Pavel in his place. _“Have him use those splendid hands on you, and, I think, since you’ve been such a very good boy to me instead of your dear ship... I’ll let you have him touch your cock. You’ll have Mr. Spock play with your cock and finger your hole until you come undone for him. You’ll think of me, of course, but once he’s been party to your pleasure, he can hardly report you.”_ A pause, and Pavel isn’t thinking, just feeling and boiling. After a few torturous seconds, Khan muses, _“And, just so I can make sure you truly try to draw these actions out of him, you’ll leave your communicator on the entire time. You won’t speak a word to me, and I’ll make sure this end is quiet. But I’ll be able to hear every last noise on your side, and I want to hear you apologize your way into a hundred more compromising positions.”_

Pavel moans. It isn’t meant to be a confirmation or any kind of ‘yes,’ but Khan still orders, _“Go.”_

Pavel pushes out of bed immediately. Still tangled in the blankets, he falls and hits the floor, cushioned by all the fabric that’s toppled over with him. It takes him too many seconds to untwist himself and stand, but he manages, and he quickly goes back for the communicator, stuffing it into his back pocket. He’s suddenly glad he didn’t undress; he wouldn’t have the wherewithal now to do it. Tugging his gold tunic down in an attempt to hide his erection, Pavel shoots out the door of his quarters.

He hits the bright hall and heads straight for the turbolift, walking fast; Mr. Spock’s shift is over, and doesn’t he usually meditate before heading off to his next extracurricular task—currently a joint medical-science experiment with Dr. McCoy? He vaguely remembers overhearing Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk discussing it on the bridge, and worse, Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock openly sparring over it—hence the need for meditation while this assignment keeps them together. But perhaps Mr. Spock was joking? As Pavel orders the turbolift up, he discards that idea—Vulcans don’t joke.

The doors open again, and Pavel darts out. He wants to be as quick as possible, just in case Mr. Spock does have other plans—don’t Vulcans also sleep less? There’s also the matter of his very stiff hard-on, and the promise of, as has become increasingly rare, being able to do something about it is practically making Pavel’s ears ring. He passes two familiar faces in the corridors but doesn’t stop to talk; he’s on a mission, and besides: if he doesn’t work things out with Mr. Spock, he won’t get to have fun on the side with those men, or any others, at all.

He hits Mr. Spock’s door and nearly walks into it. It doesn’t open automatically for him, although he should hardly have expected it to—personal quarters rarely do on the shift that’s supposed to imitate Earth-night. Besides, Mr. Spock is hardly the social-call type. Pavel almost knocks, or considers as much, but can’t summon the courage to lift his hand and doesn’t think a knock would go over well anyway. Mr. Spock would probably view it as senseless hitting. After a moment of lust-clouded stupidity, Pavel pats the panel on the side of the wall, knowing a bell is probably chiming on the other side.

A few seconds later, the door slides open, revealing a tall, handsome commander. Mr. Spock folds his arms behind his back and lifts one eyebrow, entirely stoic. Pavel fidgets nervously and mumbles, “I... I came to apologize...”

“That is not necessary,” Mr. Spock succinctly answer. Pavel’s mouth closes.

But the weight of the communicator in his back pocket opens it again, and he blurts, “Can I come in?” His cheeks are already flushed, but all he can think of is that _Khan_ is listening. Pavel feels vaguely like a cliché deliveryman in a porno or a stripper gram. Mr. Spock’s eyebrow lifts even higher.

But he does step aside, naively deciding, “If you have further business...”

“I do.” Pavel shuts his mouth before he can say anymore and quickly brushes inside, slipping around Mr. Spock. It’s the first time Pavel’s been in Mr. Spock’s quarters, and the first thing that strikes him is the red on one wall and the large IDIC symbol on another. It’s very obvious that these are _Vulcan_ quarters. It’s all arranged very meticulously, not a book or shirt out of place. There’s a sleek slab of stone against the far wall that Pavel assumes must be related to meditating, and he spots two stone figurines on shelves that looked like elderly, heavily robed Vulcans. With a deep breath, Pavel plunges as far into the room as he thinks he can get away with, practically all the way to the end, where a doorway probably leads to Mr. Spock’s bedchambers.

Pavel isn’t quite that presumptuous. He stands with his arms very stiff at his sides, and he turns to eye his latest conquest, a man so far out of his league in both station and strength that he’s half a mind to flee. He’s excited, of course. Mr. Spock is terribly handsome—everyone knows that—but he never thought he stood any sort of chance. But if this goes awry... Mr. Spock could easily, and would easily, have him all but barred from Starfleet...

He tells himself not to worry about that. He has to trust Khan. Khan does extensive research before these plans, he’s sure, has met most of the Enterprise’s senior officers, whether they know it or not, and would fix any mess that arose. That helps Pavel calm down; he _does_ trust Khan.

He waits until Mr. Spock’s walked all the way up to him and stopped half a meter away, still rigid and full of command. Pavel opens his mouth, means to explain, and finds there’s nothing to say.

He sinks slowly to his knees, sure that mild surprise is flickering across Mr. Spock’s dark eyes. When Pavel’s on the floor, he dares to put his open-palmed hands against Mr. Spock’s shining black boots, and he looks up with big, pleading eyes. He’s half shocked that Mr. Spock doesn’t step back and run, but Mr. Spock, as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening at all, simply continues to stand, still as a statue, and stare down at him.

Pavel licks his lips slowly and deliberately, then breathes, “I beg your forgiveness.” It comes out so quiet that Spock probably wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for superior Vulcan ears. “I... I have serwed many men on this ship before you, and I should hawe been at your disposal first.”

Mr. Spock’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t comment, so Pavel, still trying to make his mouth wet and enticing, purrs as raunchily as he can, “I _need_ your forgiveness, Meester Spock. What I did was wery, wery bad, and I deserwe to be punished. I want you to punish me. I want to show you how sorry I am and to make it right, to show you that my first duty is to this ship and _you_...” Mr. Spock’s eyebrows draw together almost imperceptibly. Pavel opens his mouth to say more, but Mr. Spock does instead.

“Ensign, am I to infer that you are attempting to offer me favours of a... personal... nature... in exchange for overlooking your recent behaviour?”

Pavel’s stomach drops a few centimeters. He wasn’t attempt to bribe Mr. Spock at all. He shakes his head minutely and then turns redder—that’s not entirely wrong; he was offering favours of a ‘personal’ nature. Under Pavel’s waffling pause, Mr. Spock drops his arms from behind his back. His hands land squarely at his sides, doing nothing. Pavel stares at Mr. Spock’s left hand and thinks of Khan.

He leans forward, pressing his face into Mr. Spock’s forearm, and he presses a slow, chaste kiss the back of Mr. Spock’s hand. He can feel Mr. Spock’s legs tightening under his fingers, postured snapping into rigidity. Pavel nuzzles into Mr. Spock’s hand, inhales deeply and tries to be an erotic, alluring, wanton prize that even the most logical man couldn’t resist. “Commander, please... I am not offering you anything nefarious, anything that I am not allowed to giwe...” He keeps his mouth open and runs it down the side of Mr. Spock’s hand, wet bottom lip dragging along Spock’s long index finger.

Mr. Spock says tightly, “You are attempting to seduce me.”

“I was bad,” Pavel moans. “I was so wery bad. I am attempting to apologize, to show you how sorry I am, to beg you to forgive me.” At the end of Mr. Spock’s index finger, Pavel kisses the tip, then shifts his head to kiss lower down the inside of it. He nuzzles deeper and kisses the base of the finger, then along the crease between them, then a long, languid kiss in the middle of Mr. Spock’s palm. When it’s clear that, to Pavel’s complete surprise, Mr. Spock isn’t going to pull away, Pavel lets his tongue slither out, and he laves along the inside. Finally, he hears Mr. Spock’s breath hitch.

“You don’t hawe to touch me,” Pavel whispers. He doesn’t want to ruin the magic he’s miraculously created. “I will not ewen touch you, I do not think I should hawe that honour; but surely you can accept my physical admiration...”

There is no answer. Pavel takes that for a good sign and doesn’t dare stop; the second he gives Mr. Spock an easy exit, this will all be over. He keeps his tongue over the soft inside of Mr. Spock’s hand, until he can’t take it any more, and he licks his way between index finger and thumb. He tilts his head and opens his mouth, tongue flattening along Mr. Spock’s thumb. Then he engulfs it in his mouth, and Mr. Spock quietly grunts. “Ensign Chekov, this is... most unhygienic...”

Pavel slides off and hisses between wet circles around Mr. Spock’s knuckles, “I’m already dirty...” It takes him a second to realize it could’ve been meant the other way, and then he sighs, “You can wash your hands after; I will not touch anything else...” Other than Mr. Spock’s boots, which he’s fighting with himself to not desperately latch onto. If he thought he had even a slight chance of getting away with it, he’d probably be humping them, but he’s smarter than that, even in this state. He slowly makes his way down Mr. Spock’s middle finger and sucks it into his mouth. Mr. Spock’s other fingers curl helpfully out of the way: a slight but important participation. Pavel smiles and suckles the digit in his mouth.

Mr. Spock half draws it out, then, to Pavel’s surprise, pushes back in, almost experimentally. Pavel moans and sucks harder. The movements stay subtle, but they do repeat; Mr. Spock is slowly, deliberately, fucking Pavel’s mouth. Inside, it’s still, but Pavel does the work anyway, wrapping his tongue around it and humming. His eyes fall shut on their own, and for a moment, Pavel gets lost in the strange feeling of pleasuring a man in a very odd way. He pours himself into it all the same. When his eyes open back up halfway, Mr. Spock’s staring down at him, cheeks slightly more green than usual.

Pavel pops off Mr. Spock’s middle finger and kisses the ring one, licks up and down, then kisses his way to Mr. Spock’s pinky. He sucks it once, then retreats to mouth in a general, broad way at Mr. Spock’s knuckles, trying to relay that he’d very much like to take on _more_ ; to take on all of them at once.

Mr. Spock breathes, “This has very little to do with an apology...”

“ _Please._ ” Pavel doesn’t even know what he wants. What he meant to say. He keeps his attention on Mr. Spock’s hand, and to his delight, it turns for him, active and helping him keep his affections equal to every surface. As his hips lift off the floor, straining to push him more into his work, he remembers the communicator. He amends his pleads to, “Please, Meester Spock... please touch me...”

Mr. Spock’s right hand hesitates towards him, and for a moment, Pavel is sure he’s going to be pushed away, but instead, it dazedly strokes back his hair like petting an animal. Pavel moans and reaches behind himself. That isn’t what he meant. He said he wouldn’t touch Mr. Spock’s uniform, but he said nothing about himself. He lifts up on his knees and pushes at his pants, slowly getting the dark fabric down his hips. He can feel Mr. Spock’s eyes on him, and he keeps his mouth busy on Mr. Spock’s hand like continuing a spell that holds the controlled commander in his power. Finally, he gets his pants past the hump of his ass, and his cock springs out, hard and leaking into his lap. He doesn’t dare touch it, doesn’t even say anything about it. He returns his hand to Mr. Spock’s boot and keeps licking away at Mr. Spock’s hand like a dog with a bone.

Pavel has to give Mr. Spock’s index finger another thorough sucking before Mr. Spock asks thickly, “What do you wish me to do?”

Pavel releases his prize and groans in between licks, “Touch me, please. Put your hands on me, in me...” He wants to rock his hips forward but won’t; they tremble instead. He makes as if to envelop Mr. Spock’s finger again, but instead, Mr. Spock’s hand breaks away from him. It moves to brush back his hair, holding his curls off his forehead. Pavel’s own saliva presses slickly into his skin, and he opens his mouth, begging to be filled again. Mr. Spock’s other hand moves in front of his mouth so that he can give it the same treatment, and Pavel mewls in delight, starting immediately.

He has to shift angles when Mr. Spock moves, lowering down in front of him. Pavel’s hands have to fall to the carpet between them, in what little room there is. The hand in Pavel’s hair slips down the back of Pavel’s head, over Pavel’s neck—he shivers. It glides down his tunic, following the curve of his spine. Though Mr. Spock’s head is now only a few centimeters above Pavel’s, he can’t look in Mr. Spock’s eyes. He shuts his instead, concentrating on the sensation in his mouth and his lower back. Mr. Spock’s hand slides off the fabric of Pavel’s tunic, reaching the bare skin of his ass. He can’t believe this is happening. He didn’t really think Mr. Spock would touch him. But then... he trusted Khan...

Mr. Spock’s hand, soaking in Pavel’s spit, cups Pavel’s ass. It doesn’t squeeze; it isn’t that crude, even though Pavel would very much like to be felt up. The middle one presses between his cheeks, draws up his crack, finds his hole and rubs it once. Pavel bucks forward before he can stop himself. He whimpers around his mouthful and opens up to swallow a second finger; he needs his mouth completely plugged so he can’t keep making all these shameful noises. He doesn’t want to scare Mr. Spock off with how dreadfully _illogical _he’s being. He bobs up and down on two, then three, of Mr. Spock’s fingers, and Mr. Spock holds them helpfully together. He rubs little circles around Pavel’s puckered and entrance and murmurs, “Fascinating...”__

__Not exactly the word Pavel would use, but he’s not about to argue. He doesn’t really care if Mr. Spock is lost in lust or just conducting some bizarre experiment. He hopes Khan is listening. He pictures Khan, back in their home, spread out in bed with the communicator open and filling the room with the sounds of Pavel’s debauchery. He pictures Khan palming his pants, slowly giving in to opening them, and then Pavel pictures Khan’s _cock_ , pumping vigorously to Pavel, and it’s all Pavel can do not to shove his ass back onto Mr. Spock’s hand and fuck himself unconscious._ _

__He doesn’t have to. Another few circles, and Mr. Spock presses at the middle again, hard but slow, until the still-wet fingertip pops inside. Pavel makes a muffled gasp. He sucks, then groans in protest—Mr. Spock slowly retracts his finger. Pavel whines but nonetheless opens his mouth, feeling vaguely like a dog relinquishing a bone to his master. Before he can go in for another kiss, Mr. Spock’s hand has ducked between them. It reaches straight for Pavel’s lap and wraps unflinchingly around his erect cock—Pavel gasps and nearly chokes in surprise. He wasn’t really expecting a handjob. He didn’t even ask. Did Khan arrange this? How could he have? Mr. Spock’s finger is worming its way up his ass, and Mr. Spock’s spit-soaked hand starts to pump Pavel’s aching cock in a methodical, steady rhythm that would make any metronome proud. Pavel hangs his head and lets his mouth stay open, feeling useless. He wants something to suck on. He wants something to do. But he wasn’t ordered to do anything more, and if Mr. Spock wants him to be a helpless, one-sided subject to some bizarre sexual experiment, so be it. He sits where he is and fights to not rock his hips wantonly back and forth between two very, very talented hands._ _

__If it were anyone else, Pavel would lean forward. He’d kiss Mr. Spock’s neck, nuzzle into Mr. Spock’s shoulder, but he isn’t that stupid. He pants and gasps as his cock is jerked slowly to completion—he can _come_ too, with full permission, not just guesswork; he feels so lucky—and he mewls in ecstasy when the finger inside his channel not only reaches the knuckle, but bends and brushes his prostate. He allows his hips to twitch, hoping it was the right thing to do: show his pleasure. Mr. Spock rewards him by stroking that same spot over and over. He’s going to burst. He’s so rarely given clear permission like this. His master’s going to let him release, and that’s all that matters; he’s too foggy-headed right now to even care that Mr. Spock probably won’t appreciate having his carpet stained. Pavel can lick it clean after. And then hopefully come back another time to do it all over again... it’s one thing to be at the disposal to every man on the ship, but if he can come back to the first officer’s quarters too, and finally release all that pent up tension, especially with Khan listening in..._ _

__Pavel scrunches his eyes closed, grits his teeth, and comes in an overwhelming wave of bliss. He jerks and bursts in Mr. Spock’s hand, shoves himself back on Mr. Spock’s finger, only wishing he’d held out to take more than one._ _

__Even as he’s coming down, throbbing in the dizzying spell of an orgasm, he wants Mr. Spock to fill him more, to shove in three fingers, four, fist him as deep as possible. Pavel’s fingers are digging into the carpet, thighs tense and slick with sweat._ _

__Then he’s gasping, spiraling down, and he slumps forward. He’s emptied everything he had. Mr. Spock releases his flagging cock, and Pavel winces as it hits the hem of his pants. Mr. Spock’s finger pulls out of him, making a squelching sound and leaving a wet trail. Feeling distinctly _dirty_ is nothing new to Pavel, but as sense slowly worms it’s way back into his head, this does seem a pretty strange apology._ _

__He looks up, wanting to look cute and guilty and grateful, but a sticky hand blocks his view. Pavel gets the idea immediately and doesn’t have to be told; he darts forward and opens his mouth as wide as it’ll go, tongue shoving out to lap at the thick, white mess all over Mr. Spock’s hand. Pavel licks it away like it’s his favourite meal. ...Well, aside from Khan’s cum, of course..._ _

__He has to lick, kiss, and suck clean every last finger before Mr. Spock drops the hand, and Pavel is left, panting and flushed and dripping, to stare at Mr. Spock’s face. It looks just as stoic and unreadable as it did when they started._ _

__While Pavel _stares_ , Mr. Spock pushes back up to his feet. He folds his corrupted hands behind his back, and he announces smoothly, “Apology accepted.”_ _

__Dazed and more than a little confused, Pavel mumbles, “Thank you, Sir.”_ _

__Mr. Spock nods over his head. “You may go now.” And then Mr. Spock turns and disappears through the open doorway, off into the bedroom, while Pavel is forced to unsteadily get up, pull up his hands, and begrudgingly head in the opposite direction._ _

__His cock doesn’t completely deflate. There’s an open communicator in his pocket that’s probably going to offer him dessert, and as soon as he’s done melting, he’s going to ask for it._ _


	6. Kirk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sooo much to abbeyjewel for betaing for me. I left this story way too long and forgot everything and she got me through it. <3

It’s his last day off before they return to Earth. His schedule, resuming tomorrow, is surprisingly packed for how little of their mission is left to do, but Pavel’s earned himself twenty-four hours of nothing, and he has the feeling he’s going to enjoy it very, very much.

There are a few chores to do, of course. Things that have piled up he has to catch up on—cleaning his quarters, organizing the notes for an extra course at the Academy, several Engineering manuals he has to pour through, but he takes breaks in between everything. He completes one task, calls Khan, drowns in Khan’s voice, is forcibly dispelled and starts all over. By the time he’s finished everything he has to, there isn’t much of the day left, and Pavel’s come into his own hand (at Khan’s command) so many times that he’s not sure he could manage it again. Even though he would like to celebrate. Now comes the chunk of true freedom, and then one burst of work before he can run back into Khan’s waiting arms.

He collapses sideways across the bed, back bouncing off the sheets once. Nice and soft and relaxing and he’s earned a lie-in, but he doesn’t want to waste his off-day. He flips open his communicator for the hundredth time and brings it up, chirping happily, “All done.”

_“Everything?”_

“Until tomorrow,” Pavel concedes. “And then...” but he doesn’t finish the thought, because that’s a dangerous road to start on; he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop. The thought of being home again makes him giddy. He loves the Enterprise, he does, but... _Khan_...

Khan purrs as though Pavel’s pleased him personally, _“Good job.”_

“Zhank you.” Drawing his legs up onto the mattress, Pavel turns on his side, stretching his arms out. Even when the words are innocent, Khan’s voice is so sensual, but for once, Pavel doesn’t want to touch himself. He doesn’t even squirm. He cleaned himself off after the last round of fingering and stroking himself to Khan’s demands, but he can still feel the calm aftershocks of his release. And the one before that. He’s had a busy day, considering that he’s yet to leave his quarters, and not for the first time, he wishes he were home already so he could please Khan instead. He wouldn’t have to get hard to suck Khan off, to ride Khan’s cock, to do anything that solidified himself as _Khan’s_ : his absolute favourite thing to do. Without Khan around to please, sometimes Pavel’s days can feel a little... empty.

 _“Now... what should we have you do to celebrate, hm?”_ Pavel grins; he’d already thought along similar lines. Of course, Khan doesn’t give in or grow worn out like he does. _“Your time is almost up, but I don’t think you’ve finished that checklist yet...?”_

“Oh?” Pavel mumbles, glancing at the communicator as though Khan will see him through it. What checklist? If it’s to do with sexual favours, which it probably is, Pavel’s already done as much as he can think of, more so, in a ridiculous amount of places at any given time with almost every man aboard. It spikes his curiosity to think he may’ve missed a spot, and he asks, “What should I do...?”

_“Make up for it, of course. I’m afraid you’ve missed a rather crucial part of your assignment, after all. A very obvious, very important element that surely deserves to be brought into the fold...”_

Pavel thinks, follows the clues in Khan’s voice, puts the dots and his own fantasies together, and asks quietly, “The... the keptin...?”

_“I’m afraid we’ve left your dear captain out, Pavel. And that just isn’t right, now is it? Not when he’s as young and attractive as he is, easily eligible. I’m sure he’s already wondering why you didn’t come to him first. Your captain does own you after all, Pavel. Aren’t you supposed to be serving him? Shouldn’t you plead with him for his forgiveness and permission before you give any more of yourself away?”_

Half terrified and half excited, Pavel can’t stop himself from insisting, “But you are the one that owns me; I belong to _you._.”

Khan chuckles. _“Yes, I’m not denying that. And it’s good that you remember.”_ Pavel grins to himself, having done well, and Khan’s voice dips into demanding honey: _“But when I’m gone, you still need to be kept on a leash, and it only makes sense that the captain would be the next name on your collar. You do like being at his feet, don’t you, Pavel? You worked so hard to get on that ship; it seems only fitting that you thank the man who allows you to stay. He’s the one you’re serving day in and day out, even if you haven’t been doing it as directly as you should. I’m sure he can’t be so stupid as to have missed everything that’s been going on aboard his ship. Now the time’s come for you to make that up to him. I want you to go to him and offer him more than just your duties on the bridge, and more than just the sight of your cute ass sitting down for work each morning. You, my dear Pavel, are going to put on your yeoman’s uniform, and you are going to go offer yourself to serve your captain completely and personally, and then you’re going to give him every part of your body that he wants, so he can touch, taste, and feel you. You’re not going to wear anything other than that uniform, not even your favourite panties, because you are just for him now, and there shouldn’t be any barriers to stop him from having you as efficiently as possible. You’re going to let him take you, and you’re going to take everything he has to give, and you’re not going to have any panties to hide the evidence of it afterwards. You’re going to come back to your room just the way you were while he was fucking you, wrecked and owned and leaking; the entire ship is going to be able to see the captain’s cum dribbling down your thighs. ...And then you’re going to come right back to your quarters, tell me all about it, and soon, again, you’ll be all mine, well-used and kept warm for me.”_ A short pause in which Pavel says nothing, just stares rapturously at the communicator, and Khan purrs, _“Have I made myself clear?”_

Pavel sighs, half full of love and half full of lust, “Perfectly.” He can practically _hear_ Khan smirking, and the communicator clicks off.

And Pavel clicks into action.

All the weariness of the day seeps out of his body, all of Khan’s words and promises infusing him with energy. He’s at his drawers in a flash, already pulling his top over his head, and he pulls open the bottom drawer before he squirms out of his pants. He had a yeoman uniform (correct decoration and colour and everything; not simply his different ensign one) tailored at home for his games with Khan, but it should be the perfect costume for a night with his captain too. Pavel’s tried not to think about it too much, because there was no point lusting after a man his master hadn’t sent him to, but now that’s all over. All of James T. Kirk’s unbearable charm and looks are on the table, and Pavel’s all too excited; his hands are nearly shaking as he pulls the smooth, bright red fabric over his head. Like his other dress uniforms, the skirt is far too small for him, and no matter how far he pulls it down, it doesn’t quite cover his rear the way it should. He doesn’t mind.

Although technically this is the situation where he has the most to lose—Captain Kirk could easily demote or even expel him on the spot—he isn’t as worried as he should be. Though the captain is somewhat out of Pavel’s league and at times aloof and untouchable, he’s also often approachable, young and kind, very likeable, not that far from Pavel’s age and hardly a prude. If this doesn’t go well, Pavel can probably get out of it with his skin intact.

And if it does go well...

Pavel pulls his panties down his legs last, stepping out of them, folding them neatly, and placing them on the chair in the corner. He’ll have to put them on later, because he doesn’t have time to wash his sheets on a nightly basis. Though Khan said nothing else, it’s standard procedure to wear shoes outside of one’s quarters, and he assumes he’ll be alright with a pair of boots. Once they’re on, he takes a moment to fidget—tugging down the hem of his skirt, smoothing out his sleeves, finger-combing his curls and twirling out the little loop at the very front. There’s no real need to primp, but nerves have him in a knot, anxious and excited all at once. This is the last one. Or at least, the last candidate. He’ll still have time to play before he goes back, of course...

Part of him wishes he’d had the captain from day one, but then, it’s probably best to save the best for last. This builds him up better for Khan, who is, of course, the ultimate. Not that he expects Captain Kirk to be anywhere near as good, but the better they are, the more it always makes Pavel miss his real prize.

He reminds himself that on this starship, Captain Kirk is the top of the ladder. And he’s grateful that he has permission to reach that step. Or at least, permission to try. Pulling up straight, Pavel marches for the door; it opens seamlessly for him, almost never locked.

Pavel’s automatically halfway down the corridor—headed for the turbolift on instinct—before it occurs to him that he doesn’t know quite where to go. He’s memorized many others’ schedules, but as the captain was off-limits until just a few minutes ago, he never got that far. By the time he’s in the turbolift, he still hasn’t figured it out. He barks, “Bridge,” with a bit of a nervous twitch and colour to his cheeks. It’s the most likely place, of course, but he’ll only take a quick look, and if the captain isn’t there, he’ll go straight back down before anyone can see him. And if they do see him, well...

It’s hardly the first time he’s wandered the halls in a dress, and it’s not against the rules, and more than half the bridge crew on any given day knows exactly what he is.

The turbolift skids to a stop, the doors smoothly part, and Pavel has to shuffle aside as Captain Kirk himself steps in, smiling in acknowledgement and offering a cursory, “Ensign.” The doors close behind him, and the turbolift shifts back to life, and it takes Kirk a second to look back again, surprised.

“Yeoman,” Pavel corrects, before nodding so deep it’s nearly a bow and adding, “Keptin.” Kirk lifts an eyebrow that shows he’s been spending too much time with Spock, and then he turns absently back to the doors of the lift. Pavel’s in his own shock: perfect timing.

They stop a moment later, doors whooshing open, and when Kirk steps out, Pavel sucks in a breath and follows. He has to shuffle to keep up; Kirk’s fast, and he can hear his heels clicking conspicuously against the floor, but Kirk doesn’t comment on it. They march straight to the end of the hall, Kirk’s doors part automatically, and he steps aside, waving a hand to usher Pavel in.

Giddy at the invite but struggling not to show it, Pavel takes a few steps into Kirk’s living quarters and politely tries not to stare. Kirk’s in front of him in a heartbeat anyway, and then Pavel couldn’t hope to look anywhere else. Even in the same gold uniform that Pavel has (plus the rank stripes of a captain, of course) Kirk is a shining Adonis. His golden hair catches the artificial light, his impossibly blue eyes sucking Pavel in, his handsome face almost unbearably perfect. It’s all Pavel can do to stop his knees from shaking.

When Kirk doesn’t say anything, Pavel licks his lips and manages, “I was wondering if you could... well, if you could use another yeoman, Sir. I would... I would be wery keen to serwe all of your needs.” The he bites his lip and quiets; his intent couldn’t be more obvious if he were naked.

Kirk’s eyes sweep over him, from the ends of his boots to the top of his curls, and Pavel fidgets under the scrutiny, desperately hoping the inspection goes well. He can tell from the look on Kirk’s face that Kirk understands and is merely inspecting the goods being offered. Pavel’s delighted at how easy it is to bring that across, but there’s also lingering fear.

Finally, Kirk grins, a sideways, reaching smile that borders a smirk, and he muses quietly, “I was wondering why I got left out.”

Pavel immediately says, “Sorry.” But it doesn’t sound sincere enough, so he ducks his head in a half-bow and repeats, “I am wery, wery sorry, Keptin. I am.” And he really, really is; he’ll explain about his master later.

For now, Kirk chuckles and asks, “Is that why you demoted yourself to ensign?”

Pavel’s cheeks are on fire. Still looking down, he murmurs, “I did not want to be demoted for inappropriate behawiour, Sir.”

Kirk snorts. “Do I seem like the type to discriminate against sexual positivity?”

“No, Sir.” Pavel is trying very hard not to grin like an idiot. He’s _so_ lucky. This is the best one of all. He no longer needs to worry about getting caught, about being punished. The future is a bright one. Kirk’s hand reaches out, fingers brushing over his, and Pavel tentatively clasps his hand around his captain’s.

Kirk says, “You’re taken, I hear. This is just sex.”

Pavel nods. “Yes, Sir.” Finally, he lifts his head, daring to look into Kirk’s crystal clear eyes.

“Lucky for you, I happen to like free sex.” And he tugs Pavel forward by the hand, turning towards the bedroom. Pavel, giddy with his luck, lets himself be dragged. This is the easiest it’s ever been. There are no explanations. He always assumed Kirk would have an open-relationship sort of streak, but it’s wonderful to see it manifested, and Pavel can’t help but wonder who else the captain has taken to bed. Maybe he’s not so different from Pavel, just on the more dominant end. The thought’s a delicious one. Pavel couldn’t have asked for a better ship to serve on.

Kirk’s bedroom is surprisingly small, or at least, not as big as Pavel would’ve imagined. Not a grand thing with a giant four-poster. His quarters are larger than Pavel’s, yes, but they’re still humble, and Pavel can see the function. For the most part, it’s clean, with only a few stray PADDs out and a picture frame here or there, and a few old, paper-back books that give Pavel a moment’s pause. Somehow, Kirk never struck him as much of a reader, but Pavel should know more than anyone that surprises lie behind closed doors. He doesn’t get to look at them long. As soon as they reach the bed, Kirk’s hands are on Pavel’s hips.

Kirk picks him up easily, like he weighs nothing, and Pavel gasps and clutches at Kirk’s forearms. He’s placed gently on the edge of the bed, made to sit, and Kirk bends to pull off his boots one at a time. Pavel feels more like he’s being served than the other way around, and he can’t stop blushing while Kirk just smiles in amusement. When Pavel’s feet are bare, Kirk straightens and pulls his shirt right over his head—Pavel gapes at the tight expanse of his chest that’s exposed. All muscle, but still soft. Almost golden skin. The only hair is the golden trail disappearing into his pants, and Pavel stares everywhere, growing warm just from the sight—of course Kirk would be _gorgeous._

Kirk tosses the shirt aimlessly over his shoulder and purrs, “Guess what need of mine you’re going to serve, yeoman.”

Pavel, mouth nearly watering, moans, “I’m going to pleasure you, Sir?”

Kirk closes the space between them, ducking down to loop his arm back around Pavel’s waist, and hooks his head over Pavel’s shoulder to hiss, “I think we’re going to try for some mutual pleasing, Chekov.”

Chekov shivers, holds onto Kirk’s shoulders, and mumbles, “Yes, Sir.”

Then he’s lifted up and hiked along the bed, deposited back down with his head in the pillows. He can already tell that Kirk is going to be a kind lover, but he wouldn’t have expected otherwise. Kirk’s pants stay on, and so does Pavel’s dress, but it’s already so short that it barely covers anything, and sliding up the mattress has hiked up the hem around his waist. Kirk lifts up onto his knees to scan Pavel’s body again, and now Pavel’s self-conscious about his crotch, his cock lying across his stomach, the tip caught under the red fabric. He’s still mostly soft, but not as much as before; how could he stay entirely flaccid with James Kirk above him, offering to bring him pleasure? He resists the urge to reach down and rearrange himself, to try and pose better, and just lets Kirk see him raw. He can see the approval in Kirk’s eyes every step of the way, and that eliminates his fear.

Kirk reaches up to brush Pavel’s cheek and murmurs, “You’re very beautiful, yeoman.”

Pavel mumbles, “Zhank you, Keptin,” and doesn’t return the compliment; he’s decided not to speak unless spoken to, and Kirk must know how handsome he is. It’s probably all over Pavel’s face. Kirk’s hand runs down Pavel’s cheek, over his chest, down around his stomach, and slips along his thigh. Pavel gasps and tries to hold still as Kirk’s fingers dip under his balls, cup them lightly and tug.

“Is there any particularly reason you aren’t hard for me, Chekov...?”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Pavel immediately blurts. “I... I hawe had a wery... busy day.”

“You already came?” Kirk asks, eyebrow raised. Pavel nods sheepishly, and Kirk’s grin increases. “More than once?” Pavel nods again. “Hm... I like a challenge.” He gives Pavel’s shaft a little squeeze that almost hurts, but Pavel knows it’s not going to be as much of a challenge as Kirk thinks. Pavel’s meant for sex, and the more he looks at his shirtless captain, the more he knows he’ll manage again. And if he doesn’t, well... he’ll happily ride Kirk’s cock either way.

He wants to see the rest of Kirk bare very, very badly, but he’s a good boy that’s been trained to wait for his master’s whims, so he lets Kirk idly toy with his crotch for a few more minutes. He tries not to arch too much into the touch, tries not to squirm, and finally, Kirk runs his hands back up to Pavel’s face, bending down for a kiss.

Their first kiss is closed but _hard_ , Kirk pressing down to dig the back of Pavel’s skull into the pillow, and Pavel eagerly waits for Kirk’s tongue to beckon his lips open. But it doesn’t happen, not on that go. Kirk just holds them together and pulls away to peck Pavel’s cheek.

He murmurs, “Pull your legs up,” and Pavel instantly obeys. He bends his knees back, already spread, holding them flat against his chest and scrunching his dress all the way away. It exposes him completely, but that’s a feeling Pavel’s used to, and he simply waits under Kirk’s lingering gaze, hole twitching in anticipation. Kirk must be able to see the glistening wetness of lube clinging to Pavel’s rim; he always keeps himself stretched and wet, especially on off days when he’s fingered himself to Khan’s instructions several times. He can feel that he’s tightened up again since the last round, and he knows he isn’t dripping, but he can still take a cock without other preparation. Well, maybe not one as large as Khan’s, but no one’s as large as Khan...

Kirk looks impressed and idly strokes the held-open cheeks of Pavel’s ass, noting, “Good foresight, yeoman.” Something about being referred to by his rank—a fictitious, lower one at that—makes Pavel even more excited than usual. Pavel almost mentions that he’s always this way, should Kirk want him any other time, but leaves that for later. Right now, Pavel is quiet and hopefully cute and waiting, hole flexing deliberately the more Kirk stares at it. The urge to be _filled_ is washing through him, and he hasn’t even seen Kirk’s cock yet, doesn’t even know what he’ll be filled with, but he knows he wants it. He can’t imagine the rest of his captain’s body being anything but beautiful.

Kirk finally retracts his hands to his own pants, works down his own zipper, and Pavel is licking his lips, so hungry. His eyes are glued on Kirk’s crotch, grateful that Kirk never bothered to lower the lights. It’s not an intimate, romantic thing: it’s a quick, always open offer to please, from one loyal, devoted yeoman to his amazing, deserving captain. Kirk purrs, “Should we get right to it, Mr. Chekov?” And Pavel nods so hard he almost gives himself whiplash. He doesn’t need any more foreplay—this is all one giant set of foreplay for his real love affair with Khan.

Kirk pushes down his zipper, white underwear underneath, and pulls out a long, thick, pink cock, just as handsome as the rest of him. Pavel only has a few seconds to take it all in before Kirk is lowering down to Pavel’s hole, pressing the bulbous head against his puckered entrance and looping strong arms under his knees. Pavel lets go of his legs and lets Kirk take them. Instead, he shoves down his skirt like trying to cover himself up, playing the innocent maiden that’s about to be deflowered by a masterful superior. Kirk gives him a burning look, then shoves in.

And it’s _exquisite_. Kirk is large and intense, shoving into him all at once, one smooth, easy stroke that sheaths him halfway up, and Pavel clenches and cries out, but he’s cut off. As Kirk half pulls out to piston back in, he dives down, smashing their lips back together. Pavel’s are already open and stay that way in surprise, and Kirk’s tongue slips out to trace Pavel’s bottom lip and teeth and slip inside. Pavel lifts his hands to Kirk’s shoulders, holding on just in time as Kirk pushes back in, so far that Pavel mewls, moans, loses himself in the hot caverns of Kirk’s mouth. It’s so quick and brutal and big that it _almost_ hurts, but Kirk is incredibly skilled, always pulling back just before it could, then pushing back in even harder. He’s filled Pavel up in no time, and Pavel locks his feet around Kirk’s back, wanting to hold on. Kirk kisses him hard for another moment, then pulls away just as his cock recedes. He pets Pavel’s cheek with one hand, the other clutching at Pavel’s waist. He comments lightly, like he wouldn’t expect anything else, “You’re tight, yeoman.”

Pavel squeezes, watches Kirk’s face contort in pleasure, and moans, “I’m glad, Keptin.” No matter how many cocks he takes, he can always still seem to please. Kirk presses a kiss to the side of his mouth and scrapes dull teeth along his jaw, maybe just adjusting to that tightness that Pavel offers. Pavel’s cock, trapped between them, is filling with heat. Pavel doesn’t know how much liberty of Kirk’s body he has, but he can’t help running his palms over the flat expanse of Kirk’s back, over every little muscle and curve and the line of Kirk’s spine. He’s very lucky, indeed.

After a minute, Kirk seems to orient himself, and he presses as deep in as he can, grinding into the recesses of Pavel’s ass, while Pavel mewls and flexes to take it. Kirk pets his face and asks, full of promise, “Ready?” Pavel nods and digs his fingers into Kirk’s back; of course, he’d follow Kirk anywhere.

Kirk goes off like a racehorse. He pulls out, stabs in, hard and blunt but _so good_ , just at the perfect angle to make Pavel scream. He would’ve thought Kirk had practice, and it shows, and Kirk hits him just right on the next go, teeth scraping along his jaw and back to his mouth. Pavel turns up to be kissed, delighted and dizzy from the sudden pace. One of Kirk’s hands stays in Pavel’s curls, moving Pavel’s head and manipulating it to how Kirk wants, when he wants to kiss and where he wants to lick, and Pavel, like a good yeoman, lets himself be used. After such a tiresome day, he can’t hold up under the pounding; his head dissolves in a liquid mass of feelings and nerve endings. He still doesn’t protest when Kirk’s other hand worms between them along Pavel’s stomach, wraps around his cock and holds on. The pressure is nearly unbearably at first, and Pavel whines into Kirk’s mouth like a cow that’s already given up all her milk.

But Kirk is good, _so_ good, and he strokes Pavel just right, in time with every thrust, fucking into his ass and jerking his cock and kissing his mouth. Pavel’s breathing deepens, struggles. Kirk breaks the constant string of kisses to nudge Pavel’s head aside and nip at Pavel’s ear, tug at the lobe and lick the back. He whispers into it, naughtier than any captain should have any right to be, “You like this, Ensign? Being my yeoman, serving my needs? Taking your captain’s cock?”

“Yesss,” Pavel moans, hissing the Standard through incoherent noises. He has to struggle not to revert to Russian, his default when he’s taken apart like this, because even though Khan is fluent, he’s sure Kirk isn’t, and he respects his captain so much. “I lowe it, oh, I do.”

“I can tell,” Kirk chuckles. His hips are at a steady rhythm, shoving down hard and pulling back rough, but the angles he uses and the way he tugs at Pavel’s cock make it so soft, so kind and generous—like making particularly hard love. Every few thrusts, Kirk switches to grinding his hips in a slow circle, and this might be Pavel’s favourite part: a new surprise of pleasure that makes him writhe. “You look good like this. And I’m sure you’d love to do it again.”

“Yes, yes,” Pavel insists: any time, anywhere.

“...I bet you’d love to ride my cock in the captain’s chair, wouldn’t you?” Kirk bites a shallow mark into Pavel’s throat while he says it, and Pavel’s head tosses back, cock now half-hard in Kirk’s hand. Of course he wants that; who doesn’t? He’s imagined it so many times. “Maybe I’ll have you do that, sometime, right in the middle of a shift with everyone watching. And then I’ll push you down the dais and bend you over the navigation console, make love to you right next to Sulu, right in the middle of my ship.” Pavel can picture it too; Kirk’s voice isn’t Khan’s, but it’s still so hot when it’s dirty, and Kirk’s voice is spinning honey into Pavel’s head—how he’d love to hold Hikaru’s hand while Kirk _made love to him_ right in the middle of the bridge. Would he even use the yeoman’s uniform? Couldn’t he serve in just his boots and nothing else, so he’s ready to give himself away at any moment? Kirk chuckles, maybe at all of Pavel’s desperate noises, and hisses, “I’ll definitely have you over my desk. And at my feet under it. And in the turbolift, and against the warp engines, and on the railing around my chair...”

Pavel’s lost himself in moans. He should’ve begged to come to Kirk first; he was such a fool. Or maybe Khan did this to him on purpose, to leave the best for last, to leave the rest of the trip lacking this fire so he would look forward to coming home all the more. He wonders, vaguely and in a lust-clouded, forbidden haze, if Khan would like Kirk, if he could bring his captain home with him to share in Khan’s delights, or so both of them could take him together. The thought of being pinned between Khan Noonien Singh and James T. Kirk drives him absolutely wild. There might actually be tears in his eyes, but part of that is from having his exhausted body ravaged and teased like this, his poor, over-used cock pulsing to full strength in Kirk’s hand. When he shuts his eyes, he pretends he’s in the captain’s chair, getting fucked hard while Kirk sends a transmission home to Earth, to show Khan what a good little ensign and navigator and fucktoy Pavel’s been. All he wants is this forever and _Khan._

“You’re such a good ensign,” Kirk’s crooning, moving on from dirty promises to praise that makes Pavel glow, make him moan and buck his hips up into Kirk’s hand, even though it takes him farther from Kirk’s cock. “You’re such a good boy for me. You make a good yeoman, too, and you’d make a perfect pet... I’m going to fuck you _all the time_...”

Pavel tries to scream his pleasure, his confirmation, but he can’t seem to make any human noises. He just clings to Kirk and keeps clenching his ass and turning where Kirk bends him, longing to please. Kirk turns his head again to kiss him, hard, over and over, until Pavel’s cheeks are wet from tears and he can’t bare to be hard anymore.

He comes first, shrieking a strangled, “ _Keptin,_ ” and throwing himself wildly up into Kirk’s arms. Kirk kisses him back down into the pillows and pumps out his cock while Pavel trembles and comes undone.

A few thrusts later, and Kirk spills into him, growling into his neck and clutching tight. Pavel’s already wrapped himself around Kirk like a blanket that’s never going to leave. He can feel the stain he’s made on the bottom of his uniform and Kirk’s stomach, but it’s worth it for the pool that spills into his ass, filling him out. Kirk pulls out too soon and doesn’t give it time to well up, to plug inside. Pavel squeezes his thighs together to try and hold onto it but knows better.

Kirk, grinning so fondly, kisses Pavel’s forehead and asks, “Do you want to borrow underwear?”

Even though the thought of wearing his captain’s underwear makes Pavel blush harder and squirm with want, he says, “No thank you, Keptin.” Because his master told him not to. He likes being plugged up, of course, but as Kirk’s release leaks out of him, he supposes he does like feeling slick cum along his legs too. Kirk just smiles wider at him, rolling off and lying next to him, and though Pavel instantly misses the feeling of Kirk’s weight, it does give him a chance to breathe. It takes him a second to realize how wet his eyes are, and he reaches up to wipe them off on the back of his hands.

“Good?” Kirk asks softly. Pavel nods and laughs: incredibly good. He knew it would be. A part of him doesn’t want to leave the bed at all; he’d like to curl up right here, nice and satiated, and spoon with his captain until duty calls again.

But he wasn’t told to stay overnight. He was told to please his captain, and he did, so he pushes himself up into a loose sitting position, swaying slightly and murmuring, “You will take me again sometime, yes?”

Kirk snorts and pats Pavel’s hip, with a look on his face that seems to ask how he could possibly not. Pavel will have to do more serving next time. He was lazy this round; he just lay there and took everything Kirk so generously gave him. But there are a few days left, and even if Pavel doesn’t have much off time, maybe now he needn’t wait for his shift to end. ...And there’s always next mission.

After a few more minutes to catch his breath and steal little glances at Kirk, luxuriously laid out in bed with his cock still hanging out of his pants, Pavel pushing himself up. He stumbles to his wobbling legs and feels like a newborn fawn that can’t walk right, but Khan’s put him in that state more than once. He pushes the bottom of his skirt down around his flagging cock, bizarrely proud of how little it covers and how much of his captain’s love is still obvious. When he looks back, Kirk offers, one eyebrow raised, “You sure you don’t want to stay the night?”

“Can’t,” Pavel mumbles, though with Kirk looking like that, it’s tempting. He chews his bottom lip and supposes, “Another time?”

Kirk nods. “We’ll have to talk about this more sometime. Or maybe I’ll have to talk to whoever’s lucky enough to have you. Let them know I’m up for a chat if they want one, alright?” Pavel nods back instantly; he’d like that, but of course, it’s up to Khan.

Then he forces himself to leave before he gets lost in another ogling contest, and Kirk calls after him, “G’night, yeoman!”

Pavel can barely giggle out, “Keptin,” right back. He nearly forgets his boots but doesn’t have the strength to pull them back on, so he just winds up holding them against his chest as he pads out into the halls of the Enterprise, sweaty and bright eyed and lucky.


	7. Bonus

Pavel’s absolutely exhausted, used up and worn out, and he’s pushing his body to the limits with how fast he runs. Khan would’ve waited for him at spacedock, of course, but Pavel said no, Pavel made himself wait; Pavel wants to work for it. He wants to run home and collapse in Khan’s arms, to the perfect picture of all the domestic bliss he gave up. Besides, he doesn’t think he can trust himself with Khan in public, not right away, after the small, close community of the starship he just gave up, where he spent the last few days serving in a mini-dress and boots that everyone knew about. His last day on board...

Pavel shivers just thinking about it, skidding to a stop in front of their building and wincing as the heavy bag over his shoulder slaps against his leg. He fumbles with the door lock and the code to open it, and then he’s in the lobby, trembling and stumbling towards the lift, grateful that the lobby’s empty. It should be, at this time of night. It was a long trip home, and a long debriefing, and a long going away party where he served all his new friends. His uniform—the normal one—is clinging to his skin, glued in place from the many layers of cum he milked from his superiors, and he’s sure he smells like a brothel. The mess hall may as well have been one. Sitting in that little return shuttle on the way home was torture, strapped down after so many rounds of being used, only to be taken again in the bathrooms of the spacedock as a going away present for his captain...

The walls in the lift are shiny, and Pavel tries to smooth out his sweat-slicked curls in his reflection. He wants to look good for Khan. He just looks wrecked. But Khan should expect that—he was the one to tell Pavel to go out with a bang.

The lift stops, the doors open, and Pavel steps out on his floor, hurrying over to his, _their_ apartment. He’s already digging in his pocket for the keycard, but the second he’s in front of it, the door whisks open.

And _Khan’s_ standing in its place, big and beautiful and so perfect that Pavel could cry. There’re no words for how much he’s missed this. He launches himself into Khan’s arms, and he’s wrapped in them, held tightly, and Khan’s liquid-sex voice purrs into his ear, “Welcome home, Pavel.”

Pavel might be crying. He’s definitely shaking. He holds onto Khan desperately. The next mission he has, they’ll have to find a way to go together. It’s the only way. They can’t be apart this long again—Pavel won’t stand for it.

Pavel’s picked up so easily, scooped inside, and he can hear the door hiss shut behind him. Then he’s being placed down, and Khan pulls the bag strap over his shoulder, tossing it aimlessly towards the couch. Pavel wants to launch himself forward again, but he doesn’t have the strength, so he just stays where he is, swaying on the spot and taking in everything about his boyfriend that he’s missed, from the sight to the smell.

Khan cups a hand loving along Pavel’s cheek and thumbs his skin. “You’ve been good for me, haven’t you?” Pavel nods, moaning, eyes falling shut, and he leans up into it. Khan’s hand slips down to the neckline of Pavel’s gold tunic, where a finger digs in and he pulls the fabric back from Pavel’s skin, making the load Hikaru left across Pavel’s chest stretch between his skin and the shirt. Khan gives an approving chuckle, and Pavel is so wildly happy. He probably couldn’t go another round today without passing out, but he doesn’t care; he wants Khan to burrow into him and hold him down and take everything he has, right this instant. Waiting so long doesn’t make it any easier. Being two separate people is painful.

Khan bends in for a kiss, and Pavel throws himself into it, his body falling against Khan’s and his arms wrapping around Khan’s broad shoulders. Khan holds onto him, holds him up, kisses him hard but loving, a tongue running all over Pavel’s kiss-swollen lips and opening mouth. Only when Pavel can’t breathe anymore does he pull away, long enough to murmur, “I did everything you told me. Everything. I was their collective toy today—I took so many. _Khan_ , I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I hawe missed you, so, so much...”

“I missed you too, darling,” Khan purrs, pecking Pavel on the cheek. “And I never doubted that you would be good for me.”

Pavel’s beaming. The approval makes him feel _so good._ Just what he wanted. He couldn’t ask for a better coming home present, and he tries to flatten them together again, to nuzzle his face into Khan’s neck, but Khan gently pushes him away and holds him at arms length. Khan says, “Show me,” and Pavel nods; yes, of course.

He strips his tunic right over his head. There is no undershirt, not today, but his chest is barely exposed because it’s so covered in cum, splattered everywhere, the inside of his shirt a sticky mess that he tosses to the floor. He’ll do laundry tomorrow. He fiddles with his pants and manages to get them open, push them down, and he scrunches them to his feet, his bottom half just as painted as his top. He’s blushing, but he isn’t embarrassed, not really. Khan surveys his body, clearly pleased, and Pavel blurts, “I’m glad to be with you again.” He doesn’t say _just you_ , but he means it. He’s happy to please other men in lieu of his master, but Khan... when Khan is on the table, Khan is all Pavel really wants.

Khan tells him, “I’m very impressed,” and Pavel’s chest swells. He’s so happy he could die.

But he’ll be happier in Khan’s arms again, and he squeals in delight when Khan steps forward and scoops him up, snatches him into the air in an instant. Pavel claws at Khan’s shoulders, trying to get steady and feeling bad for ruining Khan’s turtleneck with the mess all over his body, but Khan doesn’t seem to care. He holds Pavel safe in his arms and walks out of the living room.

Khan carries an overjoyed Pavel into the bedroom and deposits him down on the bed, gently pulls the blankets up around him, smoothes back his curls and kisses his forehead like tucking him in. Pavel’s grateful for the chance to rest, but he couldn’t imagine doing so without Khan. Not now. He’s waited so long, and it’s so good to be back. He holds his arms open, and Khan settles down into them, rearranging the blankets.

Khan strokes Pavel’s hair. He lies along Pavel’s body, touching everywhere but not instigating, still dressed and so beautiful. He pets Pavel’s skin and kisses Pavel’s face and murmurs, “Good night, darling. Welcome home.”


End file.
